V 


a n 


:o 



DRAMA N 
IN FOUR ACTS 


CHARLES 


TOWNSEND 




>S 3089 
.T33 U5 


Copy 1 


Uncle Rube 
























CAPT. RACKET 

A COMEDY IN THREE ACTS. 

BY 

Charles Townsend. 


PRICE 25 Cents. 


This latest play by Mr. Townsend will probably be one of his 
most popular productions; it certainly is one of his best. It is 
full of action from start to finish. Comic situations follow one 
after another, and the act-endings are especially strong and 
and lively. Every character is good and affords abundant oppor¬ 
tunity for effective work. Can be played by four men and three 
women if desired. The same scene is used for all the acts, and it 
is an easy interior. A most excellent play for repertoire com¬ 
panies. No seeker for a good play can afford to ignore it. 

CHARACTERS. 

Capt. Robert Racket, one of the National Guard. A lawyer 

when he has nothing else to do, and a liar all the time. 

Comedy Lead. 

Obadiah Dawson, his uncle, from Japan “where they make 
tea”. Comedy Old Man. 

Timothy Tolman, his friend, who married for money and is 
sorry for it. Juvenile Man. 

Mr. DALROY,his father in-law,, a jolly old cove. Eccentric. 

Hobson, a waiter from the “Cafe Gloriana,” who adds to- the 
confusion... Utility. 

Clarice, the Captain’s pretty wife, out for a lark, and up to 
' “anything awful”...... Comedy Lead. 

Mrs. Tolman, a lady with a temper, who finds her Timothy 
a vexation of spirit. Old Woman. 

Katy, a mischievous maid. Soubrette. 

Tootsy, the “Kid,” Tim’s olive branch. Props. 

SYNOPSIS. 

ACT. I. Place: Tim’s country home on the Hudson near New York. Time: 
A breezy morning in September. The Captain’s fancy takes a flight and 
trouble begins. 

ACT. II. Place; the same: Time; the next morning. How one yarn re¬ 
quires another. “The greatest liar unhung,” Now the trouble increases and 
the Captain prepares for war. 

ACT. III. Place: the same. Time: evening of the same day. More misery. 
A general muddle. “Dance or you’ll die.” Cornered at last. The Captain 
owns up. All serene. 

Time of playing: Two hours. 


Order a sample copy, and see for yourself what a 

good play it is. 















X * - 


UNCLE RUBE 

> 

) I £ l ■ 

An Original Drama in 
Four Acts 


J 

CHARLES TOWNSEND 

Author of “Capt. Racket,'' “The Captain's Wager," “The Dark Tragedian," etc. 




CHICAGO 

THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY 

L' 



$£Cvliiij COP/, 


i 


1 

- 


TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 


L/brafy cf 

jf ui u&ugTegfcj. 

0 1 f (e e c f £ j, ^ 

«W 1 ^ /a S 

Ccpjpl fe 'lit fe p2 S0 ^ 

TW.H RUBE, i33U.S 


i 


CHARACTERS. 


!! 


Reuben Rodney, a Justice of the 
Peace, School Trustee, and a mas¬ 
ter hand at “swappin’ horses” . Character lead 
Deacon Smailey, a smooth old villain Character heavy 
Mark, his son; a promising rascal . Second heavy 
Gordon Gray, a young artist . . . Juvenile lead 

Upson Asterbilt, a New York swell . Character comedy 

Ike, the hired man. Eccentric 

Bub Green, a young rustic .... Lozv comedy 
Bill Tappam, a constable .... Comedy 
Milicent Lee, “the pretty school- 

ma’am” . Juvenile lady 

Mrs. Maria Bunn, a charming widow Character 'comedy 
Taggs, a waif from New York . . Soubrette 


Time.— Mid-autumn. Place — Vermont. 

Time of Playing.— Two hours and a quarter. 

Copyright, 1899, by 

The Dramatic Publishing Company, Chicago. 

Notice.— The professional acting rights of this 
play are reserved by the publishers, from whom writ¬ 
ten permission must be obtained before performance. 
All persons giving unauthorized productions will be 
prosecuted to the full extent of the law. This notice 
does not apply to amateurs, who may perform the play 
without permission. 







UNCLE RUBE. 


3 


SYNOPSIS FOE PROGRAMMES. 

ACT I. —The “old homestead.” Ike is mystified. 
The Deacon hears some plain talk. Uncle Rube 
arrives. Some city yarns. The battle of the bees. 
“Now I call this a reg’lar circus!” 

ACT II.— The Constable’s office. —Bub Green 
wants revenge. Mark’s proposal. Milly’s answer! 
The Deacon’s cunning plot to ruin Uncle Rube. A 
receipt for $10,000. The plot succeeds. 

ACT III. —Kitchen in the old farmhouse. Get¬ 
ting supper. Milly speaks her mind. Mark gets 
impudent. He catches a tumble. Uncle Rube and 
the pop corn. Popping the question. The supper. 
Uncle Rube arrested! 

ACT IV.— The Constable’s office. Waiting for 
news. Gordon gives Mark a lesson in manners. The 
acquittal. Uncle Rube opens court. Some hard 
swearing. Taggs on her muscle. The Deacon is 
caught in his own trap. Milly’s fortune. Happy 
ending. 


COSTUMES. 

(See also, “Remarks on the Play.”) 

Rube. Act I.—First dress; linen duster, straw hat, 
light trousers, shoes. Changes to overalls, boots, 
vest, gingham shirt; no coat. Act II.—Same as 
last dress, with cloth cap and coat. Act III.—Ordi¬ 
nary sack suit, soft bosom shirt with collar and tie. 
Wears no coat until he sits at table. Act IV.—Black 
sack suit, soft black hat. 

Deacon. Old-fashioned black broadcloth suit, with 
straight brim black high hat. No change. Over¬ 
coat in Act III. 

Mark. Act I.—Rather “flashy” outing suit, straw 
hat, low shoes, walking stick. Act IT.—Light col- 



4 


UNCLE RUBE. 


ored sack suit; light soft hat, gloves. Act III.—Full 
evening dress, cape overcoat, silk hat. Act IV.— 
Same as Act II. 

Gordon. Act I.—Corduroy or velveteen suit; soft 
shirt; fez or artist’s cap with tassel. Act II.—Black 
or dark brown sack suit, derby hat. Act III.—Black 
cutaway frock coat, vest and trousers to match. Act 
IV.—Same as Act II. 

Upson. Act I.—Fancy light coat, roll front, very loud 
colored double breasted silk vest, big cuffs, highest 
possible white collar, flaming tie, laundered shirt 
with loud colored bosom, straw hat. Act II.—Same, 
with light derby hat. Act II.—Similar to Gordon, 
except for the cuffs and collar. Act IV.—Double 
breasted coat, fancy vest and trousers, derby. 

Ike. Act I.— Overalls in boots, vest, no coat nor collar. 
Acts III. and IV.—Same, except that coat is worn. 

Bub. An ill-fitting “bargain” suit — coat too large and 
trousers too short, showing several inches of ankle. 

Bill. Ordinary sack suit; overcoat in Act III. Soft 
hat. 

Milicent. Act I.— Light walking dress, straw hat, 
parasol. Act II.— Same. Act III.— Pretty but 
inexpensive house dress, hat and wrap or jacket. 
Act IV.—Same. 

Mrs. Bunn. Act I.—Calico wrapper. Acts II. and 
IV. — Walking dress. Act III.—Neat house dress. 

Taggs. Dress with short skirts. Wears hat in all but 
Act III. 


PROPERTIES. 

(See, also, “Scene Plot.”) 

ACT I. 

Common dash churn. Easel with sketching paper, 
and camp stool. Rustic bench. Half a dozen bundles 
and boxes wrapped in paper. Old-fashioned carpet¬ 
bag and gingham umbrella. Broom. 



UNCLE RUBE. 


5 


ACT II. 

Plain desk with pen, ink, writing paper and blotters. 
Half a dozen wooden bottom chairs. Small, plain 
table or stand. Newspaper. Pair of spectacles. Two 
large envelopes, one sealed, the other unsealed; the 
latter contains ten bills. Map and auction bills on wall. 


ACT III. 

Firewood. Small kitchen stove with length of pipe, 
elbow and collar to fit against rear flat, as if the pipe 
ran through it. Teakettle, teapot with tea, table to 
seat eight, with common modern chairs, pan of biscuit 
in oven, plates, cups, saucers, knives, forks and spoons 
for eight, sugar bowl and sugar, milk pitcher and milk, 
butter, cake, pie, dish of potato salad, cupboard, two 
tin pans, pop corn in the ear, tea caddy and tea, broom 
and dust pan. Lighted lamp on table. 


ACT IV.- 

All as in Act II. Add letter in envelope, for Milicent 
to bring on. Bible. 

Special Notice: When this play is produced by 
dramatic clubs a reliable and careful man should be 
engaged to look after the properties. This is vitally 
important . The properties are all simple and easily 
arranged, but nothing should be left to chance. Every¬ 
thing required must be on hand by seven o’clock and 
carefully checked off on the list. 

Music.—Always have an orchestra if possible—at 
least a violin and piano. Have the musicians present 
for the final rehearsals and have the music carefully 
rehearsed. Specialties may be introduced ad lib . in 
the play—especially in the first and third acts. 


6 


UNCLE RUBE. 


SCENE PLOT. 

ACT I. 

Lawn or garden in 5th grooves. 

5-5 



Lawn or garden in 5th grooves. Low picket fence crosses behind 4th 
grooves. Gate L. C. opening in and towards L. Set house R. with practicable 
door. L. wings all trees. Green baize door. Churn and stool R. front. Easel 
and camp stool up L- C. Rustic bench down I... Lights all on. Time, morning. 


ACTS II. AND IV. 


A plain room in 4th grooves. 
5- 


5 



Plain room in 4th grooves with street backing in 5th grooves. Doors L. C. 
in flat, R. U. E- and L- 1 E, Desk and chair L. Small table and three chairs 
R. C. Three chairs at rear, one L. front. No carpet. Map and auction bills on 
wall. Lights on. Time, morning. 













UNCLE RUBE. 


? 


ACT III. 


A kitchen in 4th grooves. 

Landscape backing—Dark. 

5-—-5 



Kitchen in 4th grooves, with landscape backing in 5th grooves. Rear bor¬ 
der lights off, as landscape must be dark. Doors L. C. in flat, R. U. E. and L 
1 E. No carpet. Table C. Stove up R. (See “Property Plot.”) Cupboard 
L. of stove. Door in flat to open on stage. Lights on. 


REMARKS ON THE PLAY. 

Although “Uncle Rube” is a star role, yet the play 
contains no small parts. Every character is first-class, 
and gives splendid opportunities for strong individual 
work. 

The stage directions for this play are given with the 
utmost care and should be followed to the letter. 
Rehearse the business and by-play as carefully as you do 
the lines. And as a further aid to a correct perform¬ 
ance the author gives the following valuable advice 
regarding each character. 

Uncle Rube. Ageabout5o. He is an ideal “Yankee, ” 
active, keen and wide-awake. His speech is not nasal, 
but is marked by a drawl in some cases and a clipping 
of letters in others. Thus, the abbreviation “y* ’’ 














8 


UNCLE RUBE. 


(you), is spoken as if written “yuh,” while in “and” 
only the n is heard. He is good natured to a degree, 
but if any one is “looking for trouble” he is ready to 
accommodate. The actor who plays this part may be 
short or tall, stout or slender. The face may be smooth 
shaven, or the typical “goatee” may be worn. All 
this is immaterial, but in any event the face, neck and 
hands must be made up with a tan shade of grease 
paint indicative of his out-door life. The hair and 
eyebrows are slightly gray. 

Deacon Smailey. Age 55. A thin, nervous, raspy¬ 
voiced, dyspeptic old villain. Use sallow as a body 
color and shade the cheeks and temples with light 
brown, to give the face a lean and hungry look. Use 
no rouge. Line the forehead and eyes. Shade the 
lower eyelids. Extend the lines of the mouth down¬ 
ward. The face is smooth shaven. Hair a little gray. 
Speak the lines throughout in a high voice, with a very 
faint “twang.” The Deacon endeavors to be smooth 
in speech at times, but that is always assumed, and he 
should quickly drop back into his usual tone. 

Mark. Age 23. Make up dark, with small, black 
mustache. Although Mark is a scoundrel he might, 
from his speech and manner, be mistaken for a gentle¬ 
man. Keep that fact in mind when playing this part 
and thus avoid any “heavy villain” melodramatic busi¬ 
ness. His city life has given him a self-confident 
manner with an inclination to swagger a little—but 
this must not be overdone, for he is in no sense a 
“tough. ” 

Gordon. Age 28. Gordon is a high bred, high spir¬ 
ited young gentleman. He is a society man, polished 
in speech and manner, somewhat inclined to chaff, but 
always courteous. His speech is that of the typical 
New York gentleman—well modulated and rather slow. 
Make up fair and either smooth shaven or with a light 
mustache. 

Upson. Age 21. One of the new school of dudes 
—idiotic, as such freaks always are, yet something of a 


UNCLE RUBE. 


9 


“scrapper” in a pinch. The absurd walk (with minc¬ 
ing steps, the arms bent and raised a little), the vacant 
look, and drawling tones must be kept up at all times, 
even during his row with “Bub.” Make up pale and 
smooth shaven. 

Ike. Age 50. A tanned, weather-beaten, clumsy, 
good natured son of the soil. Make up face, neck and 
hands with tan grease paint. Should be smooth 
shaven, if Rube wears a beard; otherwise chin whisk¬ 
ers should be worn. Speak in a drawling Yankee dia¬ 
lect, but be careful about overdoing it. 

Bub. Age 20. A sloppy, dull pated yokel—bump¬ 
tious and disagreeable. Must be very awkward in 
gait and gestures. Make up red faced, smooth shaven, 
with sandy hair. Speak with a snuffle or.as if there 
were something in the mouth. This is a low comedy 
role and should be as uncouth as possible. 

Bill. Age 45. This is a “straight” part with com¬ 
edy lines, except in the third act. The character, 
therefore, has no marked peculiarities, although an 
occasional twist is given to some of the speeches. 

Milicent. Age 20. A breezy western girl, fearless 
and independent. She says what she means and is not 
afraid to say it. At the same time she is womanly and 
sympathetic. 

Mrs. Bunn. Age 40, but looks younger. Mrs. Bunn 
is an attractive woman. She is bright, breezy and full 
of life. Her speech is not always grammatical and she 
has a faint dialect. Her lines should be delivered with 
considerable emphasis, not always in the right place, 
as this is properly a character role. 

Taggs. Age 15. This is a soubrette lead—a rough 
soubrette—and is a difficult role to portray. Taggs is 
“a daughter of the tenements,” a product of the 
strange “East Side district” of New York. She is 
slangy, but not vulgar; rough and “scrappy,” but 
truthful and good hearted. She is always in a hurry— 
comes and goes with a rush,—and is seldom quiet. 
The “tough” dialect should be carefully practiced until 


IO 


UNCLE RUBE. 


it is thoroughly mastered. The lady who plays this 
exacting part must free herself from conventionality— 
must enter heart and soul into the role—remembering 
it is all assumed for the time —and must not be afraid 
to romp and shout. If of small figure she may be far 
older than Taggs appears to be, as the short skirts will 
give her a childish appearance. 

To the Stage Manager.— You should insist that the 
lines be learned at the outset. No effective rehearsing 
can be done, at least by amateurs, until the parts are 
committed. Rehearse the business over again and 
again, for it is as important—often more important— 
than the lines themselves. The second and fourth acts 
have quiet endings, but the finale of the third act 
demands some movement, and the first act ends with 
a rush. Look to this act particularly. Study the play 
yourself very carefally before the first rehearsal, so 
that you may be thoroughly in touch with it, and then 
allow no arguments nor grumbling while a rehearsal 
is on. 

Let all who take part remember that the stage man¬ 
ager has a thankless position, and endeavor by close 
attention, patience and forbearance to make his work 
as easy as possible. 


UNCLE RUBE. 


ACT I. 

Scene. — The Rodney farm in midsummer. See 
“Scene Plot." Discover Ike seated down r. churning. 
Gordon up l. c. sketching. Lights all on. Music: lively 
for rise. 

Ike. [Sings chorus of popular song.] Wall, great 
grasshoppers! This here ’s the crankiest consarned 
milk ’n’ cream ’n’ butter I ever seed. I’ve churned 
’n’ churned till I’m jes petered out ’n’ it won’t gether 
nohow. 

Gor. Good reason, Ike. 

Ike. Why? 

Gor. It’s all your fault. 

Ike. I want t’ know! 

Gor. Sure thing. You have been howling like a 
tornado, and the agitation of the air prevents the pad¬ 
dle of the churn from breaking up the small globules 
of the cream. 

Ike. I want t,’ know! Say, Mr. Gray, what in sam 
hill hes the globber—what - you - call - ems—got t’ du 
with it? 

Gor. They unite and form the butter. 

Ike. Fish hooks! Think o’ the churnin’ I’ve done 
’n’ never knowed afore what I were doin’. Say, Mr. 
Gray? 

Gor. Yes? [Continues sketching.] 




12 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Ike. It ain’t none o’ my feedin’, but atween you ’n’ 
me ’n’ the hitchin’ post what you goin’ ter du with all 
them air picters you’re makin’? 

Gor. Sell them, I hope. 

Ike. Shucks! Who to? 

Gor. To whoever will buy them. 

[ Enter Beacon Smailey from l. u. e.] 

Bea. [ Pausing outside of gate. ] Hello, young man. 

Gor. Good morning, deacon. 

Bea. Painting pictures, hey? 

Gor. No, sir, I’m sketching. 

Bea. How can any sane man waste the precious 
moments of life in such idle nonsense? 

Gor. Give it up, deacon. 

Bea. Pictures are evil, pernicious and wicked. 

Gor. Then I’ll never put you in one. 

Ike. Haw! haw! haw! 

Bea. What are you laughing at? 

Ike. Fly tickled me. 

Bea. You’re an evil-minded man of sin. 

Ike. I want t’ know! That’s fearsome bad, ain’t 
it? Kinder sorter apt ter spile the batter, I guess. ' 

Bea. Has Reuben returned? 

Ike. [Wheeling churn towards the house. ] Nope, 
not yit. 

Bea. When is he coming, hey? 

Ike. When he gits here, ’less he stops ter play tag 
summers. [Exits, with churn, into house. ] 

Bea. [Coming down. Oh, the impudence of these 
farm hands! How much longer are you going to stay 
around here? 

Gor. Well, deacon, I may remain for a period of 
more or less—perhaps twice as long, or possibly not 
so much. 

Bea. Um! You are a smart young man—a very 
smart young man; but be careful that it doesn’t 
strike in. 


UNCLE RUBE. 


13 


Gor. Thank you, deacon. [Comes down and feels 
his pulse .] Excuse me. 

Dea. Sir! [Attempts topull aivay.] 

Gor. Steady! [Holds his wrist.'] Deacon, you’re 
in a bad way, deacon, a most awfully bad way. You 
need a prescription. 

Dea. Sir, I- 

Gor. Steady! Take equal parts of anti-hypocrisy, 
miser tonic, extract of honor, oil of decency, and mix 
them thoroughly in some milk of human kindness. 
Take a dose whenever you feel meaner than usual; 
[Goes up r.] and if it doesn’t strangle you, you may 
become a half-way decent man in time. [Exits in 
house. ] 

Dea. The young upstart! The beggarly painter! 
[Goes up , sees sketch which remains on easel, tears it. 
This is observed by Mark, who has entered c.] I’d like 
to treat him the same way. 

Mark. Hello! 

Dea. Mark! 

Mark. What’s the matter, deacon? 

Dea. My son, I—er- 

Mark. Oh, tell the truth, dad. 

Dea. My son, I always speak the truth. Falsehood 
is- 

Mark. Gammon! Don’t try to humbug your duti¬ 
ful son. It won’t work. 

Dea. [Blustering.] Look here, young man! Don’t 
you dare be impertinent to me, sir. 

Mark. Gammon some more. Don’t try a bluff 
game, either. That won’t work. 

Dea. Mark, my son, has your city life caused you to* 
forget to honor your father? It’s sad, sad! [6V/5 on 
bench. ] 

Mark. Nixy, dad. Don’t do the weep act. [Stands 
with one foot on bench.] Look here. When I was a 
kid I believed in you and your peeksniff humbug. 
IDeacon rises.] Now sit down and hear what I’m say¬ 
ing. [Deacon sits.] I’ve been home for ten days, and 




14 


UNCLE RUBE. 


I’ve kept my eyes open. Do you know what I’ve 
learned? 

Bea. [Shortly.] No. I don’t. 

Mark. Well, I’ve learned that, if possible, you’re a 
bigger rascal than I am—and that’s needless. 

Bea. [Rising.'] Mark, how dare you! How dare 
you! 

Mark. {Tartly.} Sit down! [Deacon sits.] I’m not 
the least afraid of you, so don’t try the high and 
mighty. Why were you spoiling that picture? 

Dea. Because I hate the young snip who made it. 

Mark. Why? 

Bea. Can I trust you, Mark? 

Mark. If there’s any devilment afoot with money 
in it. 

Bea. Money—that’s right—that’s right. Money is 
the power that sways the world. Get it, get it—and 
when you do—keep it. 

Mark. Not on your life. Get it, and blow it—that’s 
my motto. Now, what’s your scheme? 

Bea. This is the Rodney farm. 

Mark. That’s no news. 

Bea. It is one of the best farms in the State. 

Mark. And that’s no news. 

Bea. I hate old Reuben—that is if my con¬ 
science— 

Mark. Well? Go on—never mind your conscience. 

Bea. And I want this farm. 

Mark. The deuce you do! Why, you own half the 
county already. 

Bea. But I’d rather have this farm than any half a 
dozen others. 

Mark. In order to ruin old Rodney, eh? What for, 
dad? 

Bea. Durn him, he always gets the best of me— 
beat me for Justice and School Trustee and—every¬ 
thing. 

Mark. And I’ve heard that when you were young 
men he walloped the daylights out of you. 


UNCLE RUBE. 


15 


[Enter Mrs. Bunn r. u. e.] 

Mrs. B. [As she enters .] Yes he did,' and he can do 
it again. 

Dea. [Rising and bcnving.} My dear madam- 

Mrs. B. Don’t you “madam” me, Simon Smailey. 
I know all about you. 

Mark. [Aside.] Poor old dad! 

Mrs. B. Oh, you’re very nice and smooth, and all 
that, but you can’t fool me. There isn’t a bigger old 
fraud in this whole State than you are, you sancti¬ 
monious old humbug. 

Mark. [ Whistles; aside.} He’s getting it hot. 

Mrs. B. You come palavering around so oily—but I 
can see through you. What do you want, anyhow? 

• Bea. Have you quite finished? I ain’t got anything 
to say till you run down. 

Mrs. B. Now I s’pose you think that’s awful smart. 
But you ain’t here for any good ’n’ I know it. If Mr. 
Rodney wasn’t so good-natured he’d boot you off of 
his farm for good. I’d do it in a minute if I was a 
man. 

Dea. I’m sorry you are so set against me, Mrs. 
Bunn, but I’ll try in charity to forget it. 

Mrs. B. Don’t want you to. Remember it as long 
’s you can. 

[Enter Milicent c.] 

Mil. Good morning. 

Mrs. B. Why, Milly Lee, is it really you? [Kisses 
her.} I’m awfully glad to see you. 

Mark. [To Deacon.] Introduce me, dad. 

Dea. Milly. [She turns to him.] This here’s my 
son, Mark. 

Mark. [Raises hat , bows, then crosses to her.] I am 
more than delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss 
Lee. Father has spoken of you so much; [Turns to 
Deacon.] haven’t you, father? 

Dea. Eh? Oh, yes, yes, to be sure. [Resumes seat.] 

Mrs. B. [Aside.] Softsauder! 



16 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Mark. If you have room for another pupil, I should 

like to-- . 

Mrs. B. Well, you can’t, you was expelled along 
with Bub Green for fighting that poor little consump¬ 
tive Walter, and you can’t get back. 

Mark. You are too severe, Mrs. Bunn. A mere act 

of boyish folly- 

Mrs. B. Boyish folly? Why, Milly, he was twenty 

years old then. 

Mark. [Aside. ] Confound her! [Crosses.] 

Mrs. B. Besides, Milly isn’t teaching a reform school. 
Mil. Oh, Mrs. Bunn, you are too severe. 

[Enter Ike from house.] 

Ike. Hooray! Hooray! He’s cornin’. 

All. Who? 

Ike. Uncle Rube, b’ gosh! Seen him from the 
winder upstairs. Bill Tappam’s bringin’ him, an’ he’s 
a hull contraption o’ things in ther waggin. [Exits, c.] 
Mrs. B. My land! Here I’ve been foolin’ time away 
an’ dinner to git. Milly, s’ long ’s you’re goin' to 
board here this week ’ll you mind helpin’ me once? 

Milly. With pleasure. [Bozos to Mark, zvho raises 
his hat. She then follozvs Mrs. B. into house.] 

Mark. Charming girl, dad. 

Bea. Yes, rich ’s Julius Caesar, but she don’t 
know it. 

Mark. How’s that? 

Bea. When she came here to teach she boarded at 
our house the first week. She asked me to look over 
some papers to see if they needed recording or any¬ 
thing. Among ’em was deeds to some western mining 
property she thinks is no account. But it’s on the 
boom, and she’s richer ’n all get out. 

Mark. Good enough. She suits me. 

Bea. All right, if that durn Gordon Gray don’t cut 
you out. 

Mark. Gordon Gray? Who’s he? 



UNCLE RUBE. 


17 


Dea. A painter, dum him. ’Sh—they’re coming-. 
Rube. [Outside.] Whoa up! Easy, Bill. Stop by 
ther hoss block. [Deacon and Mark go up. Milicent, 

Gordon and Mrs. Bunn enter from house , and come to 
gate.] 

Rube. [Outside.] Whoa back! Hello, Ike! Look 
out fer them bundles! Come along now. Here we 
air. 

[Lively music. Enter Rube c, with carpetbag and 
umbrella, followed by Ike, with arms full of bundles. 
Music continues . Rube shakes hands with Gordon, 
kisses Mrs. Bunn and Milicent, turns , bumps against 
Ike, who tumbles down but clings to bundles. Rube 
quickly lifts him up, gives him a push towards the 
house. Ike exits. Rube rushes over and shakes 
hands with Deacon.] 

Rube. How air you, deacon? How’s all your folks? 
Dea. We’re all pretty spry. Here’s Mark. 

Rube. Wall now, of all things! [Shakes hands zvith 
Mark.] I swan ter gunner ’f I’d a know’d you—dressed 
up fit ter kill. Say, it was clever o’ you ter mog over 
here. You’ll set by fer dinner o’ course? 

Dea. Thankee, Rube, but we’ve got tu be getting 
home. [Goes up with Mark.] 

Rube. Wall, so long, then. Come over agin. 

[Enter Milicent and Gordon from house. Rube crosses , 
shakes hands zvith them and converses aside.] 

Mark. Better stay, dad. 

Dea. No. I’ve thought of a scheme that ’ll spile 
all their fun. Come on. [Exit, zvith Mark, c.] 

Rube. So you’re a painter, eh? Wall, ef you want 
ter keep busy I’ll find suthin’ fer you ter do. Guess 

our barn wants paintin’ an’- 

Gor. But, my dear Mr. Rodney- 

Rube. Just call me Uncle Rube. I’ve been “mis¬ 
tered” down there in York State till I’m plum sick on 




i8 


UNCLE RUBE. 


it. An’ I guess the carriage house wants techin’ up a 
little an’- 

Gor. But, my dear Uncle Rube- 

Rube. Oh, we kin find suthin’ ter keep you goin’. 
[Goes toward house .] Got ter git off some o’ these con¬ 
traptions. An’ say, Milly, look out fer a stray dude. 

I brung one up from York with me. Him an’ a gal I 
rescued from the Cruelty to Children’s Society air 
cornin’ afoot pickin’ posies, ef they ain’t lost summers 
on the way. [Exits into house .] 

Gor. [Laughing. ] There! You see it pays to be an 
artist after all. One can paint fences at least. 

Mil. That isn’t hard. Think of me. 

Gor. I always do. 

Mil. I mean of my work. I’m to look out for a 
stray dude. What is it like? 

Gor. You never saw one? 

Mil. Indeed, I don’t know. We have no such lux¬ 
uries in the West. Is it dangerous? 

Gor. Not in the least. [Goes up, picks up sketch A 
Well! 

Mil. What is it? 

Gor. Somebody has been improving my sketch. It 
looks like a Kansas cyclone. 

Mil. What a shame! 

Gor. It serves me right. I was cheeky to-the 

fellow who did it. Shall we go look for the dude? 

Mil. [Going up c.] You are sure, really sure, that 
we run no risk? 

Gor. Positively—unless it should chance to be 
smoking a cigarette. [Exeunt, laughing, c.] 

[Enter Rube and Ike from house. ] 

Rube. Wall, now I feel kinder middlin’. Tell y’, . 
Ike, I’m glad th’ wust kind t’ git home. [ They sit .] 

Ike. I calkerlate y’ had a scrumptious time down 
in York—didn’t y’? 

Rube. It war n’t t’ be sneezed at. 





UNCLE RUBE. 


19 


Ike. Say, what’s th’ dumbdest thing y* seen? 

Rube. There was a hull swad on ’em. ’Bout th’ 
peskiest ’f all was th’ waterin’ carts. 

Ike. Waterin’ carts? What’s them? 

Rube. Waggins full o’ water with a dingus on th’ 
hind end es shoots ’er out onto th’ streets. 

Ike. I want ter know! Don’t it make a waller o’ 
mud? 

Rube. Can’t. Streets is all rock, like th’ sides of a 
house. An’ then th’ houses! Say, Ike, down ’n N’ 
York houses stan’ so clus t’gither thet they tech each 
other, an’ so high they hev t’ shovel off th’ clouds from 
th’ roofs. 

Ike. I want ter know! 

Rube. An’ they ain’t got no yards ner front stoops 
t’ speak of, an’ folks eat their dinners at night. 

Ike. What durn fools! 

Rube. ’N thet ain’t th’ wust of it nuther. You 
hafter eat ever’thing with a fork—pie ’n peas ’n sich— 
an’ you never git tea fer breakfast—nothin’ but coffee 
—’bout one good swaller—an’ they don’t have break¬ 
fast ’fore nine o’clock. 

Ike. Oh, come now, Rube, thet’s puttin’ it on too 
thick. Yer stuffin’ me. 

Rube. Straight goods, Ike. I’ll crook fingers to it. 

Ike. But when in sam hill do ther men folks git t’ 
work? What do they do? 

Rube. Ther’ ain’ much hayin’ ’n’ harvestin’ done, 
but I calkerlate they’re some on live stock an’ other 
animiles. Leastways I hearn consid’ble talk ’bout 
bulls ’n’ bears ’n’ sheep ’n’ tigers—but I didn’t see 
none ’cept up t’ Central Park. 

Ike. Speakin’ o’ sheep, your ole black nose ram 
Billy—th’ one what butted you inter th’ cistern- 

Rube. Consarn him, he wasn’t wuth feedin’; what’s 
he been doin’ now? 

Ike. He’s done doin’—he’s dead. The railroad 
killed ’im. 

Rube. They did, hey? Wall, they’ve got a nice 



20 


UNCLE RUBE. 


little bill ter pay. I wouldn’t a took a hundred dol¬ 
lars fer that ole rascal. Anythin’ else happened? 

Ike. Heaps. 

Rube. Wall, go on. Don’t set there like a bump on 
a log. 

Ike. Ef yer gin* ter be cantankerus, I won’t tell er 
blame thing. 

Rube. [Quietly.] Look here, Ike, I’m bilin’ mad 
already, an’ ’f y’ don’t want th’ durndest biggest 
lickin’ thet ever come over the pike, you’ll talk fast. 

Ike. Ef you try that, I’ll hev you took up afore 
yer self an’ bound over by yerself afore yerself to keep 
ther peace, b’ gosh. 

Rube. Kinder foxy, ain’t you? Wall, go on. 

Ike. Bub Green got drunk last week ’n’ tumbled 
inter your cistern ’n’ most got drownded. 

Rube. Did, hey? Who fished him out? 

Ike. I did. 

Rube. Great sassafrax! I’ll dock y’ fer lost time 
’n’ I’ve a mind t’ lock you up fer preservin’ a durn 
nuisance frum justifiable suicide. 

Ike. Bill Dawson come over yes’day. Said you beat 
him on a hoss trade ’fore y’ went t’ York. 

Rube. No, I didn’t. I told him th’ hoss was sound 
’n’ he was sound. I told him th’ hoss would stan’ 
’thout hitchin’ an’ I guess he would, seein’ he was the’ 
balkiest critter I ever seen. 

Ike. Wall, that’s erbout all. 

Mrs. B. [Appearing at door.] Dinner’s ready. 
[Exits.] 

Ike. That’s me. [Exits into house.] 

Rube. That hits Ike. He don’t need no second call. 
S’pose I’ll have ter go in ’n’ peck a little, but I ain’t a 
bit sharp set—et too much on that air buffum car 
cornin’ up. 

[Enter Milicent and Gordon c.] 

Mil. We found them, Uncle Rube. They are com¬ 
ing right along. 


UNCLE RUBE. 


2 I 


Rube. All right. Dinner's waitin’. 

Gor. [ Going towards house, with Milicent.] And the 
dude never frightened her at all. [ They exit into the 
house. ] 

Rube. Shucks! I should hope not. [Calls.] Hurry 
up there, you young folks, ’n’ come in tu dinner when 
you git here. 


[Enter Taggs and Upson c.] 

Taggs, We ain’t hungry. We swiped a watermelon. 

Rube. Did, hey? That’s highway larceny, young 
woman. Were you in it? 

Up. Aw—no. I have some of it in me, though. 

Mrs. B. [At door.] Dinner—is— ready! 

Rube. All right. [Goes up.] Better come in ’n’ git 
a snack same ’s I’m goin’ to—you won’t git nuthin’ 
’tween meals. [Exits into house.] 

Up. Good gwacious! 

Taggs. What’s the row? 

Up. Dinner in the middle of the day. Cawn’t do 
it, ye knaw. 

Taggs. Why yer can’t, cully? 

Up. Aw—yas—but me name is not Cully. 

Taggs. Yous a bird. Say, blokie, why yer can’t 
feed yer face at noon, soy? 

Up. Nobody evah eats dinnah at noon, ye knaw. 
Beside I cawn’t dine in these clothes, ye knaw. I 
always wear evening dwess when I dine. 

Taggs. [Aside.] Wouldn’t that kill yer? 

Up. What makes you talk so odd, ye knaw? 

Taggs. Cause I’m a tenement house kid. What 
makes yous? 

Up. Do I weally? 

Taggs. Sure thing. 

Up. That’s the way all the fellahs in our set talk. 

Taggs. Well, yous funnier den ther Salvation Army. 

Up. I nevah heard of that army. What do they 
fight? 


22 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Taggs. Booze. 

Up. Booze? 

Taggs. Booze. 

Up. That’s new to me. 

Taggs. Never heard of booze! [Aside.] Wouldn't 
that kill yer? Say, nibsy, Unele Rube said I could 
have all the honey I wanted when we got here. Let’s 
go and find a chunk. 

Up. All wight. Does it gwow on twees? 

Taggs. Grow on trees? Wouldn’t that-say, do 

yous know how they gets honey? 

Up. Of cawse. You get it with gwiddle cakes. 

Taggs. Come on. Yous so green if yer stan’ still 
yer’ll sprout. [They start up c., meeting Bub Green, 
who enters c. All stop and stare.] 

Bub. Gosh all fish hooks! Who’reyou? 

Taggs. Glory! What a guy! 

Bub. Be you visitors? 

Taggs. We-be! 

Bub. My name ’s Green. 

Taggs. You look it. 

Bub. Needn’t be sassy jes ’cause you’re a gal. You 
ain’t so much. 

Taggs. [To Upson.] Will yous muggle up an’ let 
ther hayseed insult a loidy? 

Up. Of cawse not. You must not insult her, ye 
knaw. 

Bub. [Throws off coat.] Come on, yer spindle shank. 
I’m Bub Green, I be, ’n’ I kin lick any dude this side 
o’ kingdom come. Come on! [Prances about.] 

Taggs. Hooray! Now Upsy, sail in an’ do ’im up. 
I’ll referee it. 

Up. Yas. [Gives her his hat , collar , cuffs and tie.] I 
haven’t got on me boxing suit, but I suppose it doesn’t 
mattah, foh none of the fellahs are here to see me. 

Bub. Now, I’ll learn y’ suthin. [Rushes at Upson, 
who steps aside and knocks him down as he passes.] 

Taggs. Hi, hi, hi! Pretty work! 

Bub. [Sits up; looks dazed.] 


UNCLE RUBE. 


23 


Taggs. All ready fer der nex’ round! Time! 

Up. Yas. 

Bub. [Dolefully . ] I want t’ go home. 

Up. All right, sonnv, get up. 

Bub. Y’ won t hit me ergin? 

Taggs [Disgusted. ] Wouldn’t dat kill yer? 

Up. [Putting on collar , etc.] No, I weekon not. I 
only joggled his bwains a little. 

Taggs. Say, Upsy, yer a peach. 

Up. Thanks awfully. [They go up.] Now, we’ll 
go and find some honey. 

Taggs. Bye, bye, Bub. So long. [Exits with 
Upson, c.] 

Bub. [Rises.] I allers s’posed a dude couldn’t fight. 
Guess I got fooled. 


[Enter Rube from house. ] 

Rube. How d’du, Bub. How’s all your folks? 

Bub. [Shortly.] Folks is well ’nuff. 

Rube. Glad on’t. Guess you ain’t, though. 

Bub. Guess I am. 

Rube. What makes ther lump on yer head? 

Bub. Run ergin a hitchin’ post. 

Rube. Don’t say! Must a been, runnin’ back’ards. 
Bub. Mebbe. But I warn’t runnin’ back’ards when 
I fell inter yer blame ole cistern. 

Rube. Prob’ly not, Bub. ’Cordin’ ter reports you 
was chuck full ’n’ runnin’ over jes’ then. 

Bub. It spiled my clothes. 

Rube. Good thing too, if they’s anythin’ like the 

ones yer wearin’. 

Bub. Them clothes was better ’n these here ones. 
Cost four dollars ’n* ninety-five cents, b’gosh, ’n’ dad 
says you’ll pay fer ’em er he’ll sue yer. 

Rube. Wall now! I suspicion I orter be scared a 
few, hadn’t I? 

Bub. You’ll find out. 


24 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Rube. Say, Bub, ever hearn tell o’ ther bull frog es 
tried t’ swaller a whale? 

Bub. Shucks! He couldn’t. 

Rube. He thought he could, ’n’ he swelled up till 
he busted. That’s jes what’ll happen ter yer dad. 
Sue me? Why, you young skeeziks, eff he tries it I’ll 
issue a warrant ’n’ arrest you fer bein’ drunk ’n’ dis¬ 
orderly, incitin’ a riot, failure t’ commit suicide, spilin’ 
my cistern water, fightin’ in my door yard non compost 
mental ’n’ tic doleroo! Git now, er I’ll throw yer over 
the fence. [Bub retreats up c. Voices of Upson and 
Taggs heard off shouting, Wow! Mudah! Help! Run, 
Run!] 

Rube. {Looking off.} Ef thet durn fool of a dude 
ain’t got among the bees! [“ Hurry" music.} 

[Upson and Taggs run on c., as if fighting bees. Rube 
pulls off coat and throws it over Taggs’ head. Upson 
runs into Bub and both tumble over, shouting lustily. 
Ike and Mrs. Bunn enter from house. She has a 
broom, which she swings lustily, hitting Ike, who yells 
and falls. He rises, is hit again , and crawls tozvards 
house on hands and knees . She throws apron over her 
face and swings broom, belaboring Upson, and Bub. 
Deacon Smailey starts to enter c., stops as if stung, 
and dances about, shouting, Condemn yer old bees! 
Take ’em off! Take ’em off!] 

Rube, [c., with arm around Taggs]. This is what 
I call a circus! [.Lively march.} 

CURTAIN. 


ACT II. 

Scene.— Tappam’s office at the “Corners." See 
“Scene Plot," Doors, l. c. in flat, r. and l. Desk and 
chair down l. Table and chairs r. Lively music for 
rise. 



UNCLE RUBE. 


2 5 


[Enter Tappam r. and Bub d. f.] 

Bub. Hello. 

Tap. Hello you. 

Bub. Say, Bill, kin I git you t’ du suthin’ fer me? 

Tap. P’r’aps. What is it? [S&y at desk .] 

Bub. It’s suthin’ I want clone durn bad. 

Tap. Well, set down ’n’ tell what. 

Bub. [Seated, r. front.] I want yer to—to- 

Tap. Two ’n’ two ’s four. Been gettin’ drunk 
some more? 

Bub. No, I hain’t. I want ter git ole Rube Rod¬ 
ney arrested. 

Tap. You—don’t—say ! What fur? 

Bub. I fell inter his blamed ole cistern. 

Tap. Then he orter make you pay fer rilin’ it up. 

Bub. A lot of his dinged ole bees stung me. 

Tap. That’s bad. You might have ther bees ar¬ 
rested. 

Bub. ’Twan’t no joke. 

Tap. I guess yer right, Bub. I’ll bet it pizened 
the bees. 

Bub. ’N’ then that there dude blacked my eye. 

Tap. [Loudly. ] What! [Bub jumps back .] Got 
licked by a dude? Say, you orter be booted; you orter 
hev a good cow-hidin’; you orter be sent up fer ten 
year. Why, 3 7 ou good fer nuthin’ dongen-head, yer a 
disgrace to ther whole State o’ Vermont. Yer the 
most disgustable critter I ever come across. Licked 
by a dude! 

Bub. ’Twarn’t my fault. 

Tap. Oh, ’f course not, sonny. Ther feller wat gits 
licked ain’t never to blame. 

[Enter Rube d. f.] 

Bub. [Not seeing him .] Wall, I’ll git even with ole 
Rodney. 

Rube. All right, Bub, now ’s a good time. 

Bub. I—I—I didn’t mean it, Uncle Rube. 


26 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Rube. Say, Bub, you make me think of a rooster 
that’s crowin’ fit ter kill, w’en somebody chucks a 
rock at him ’n’ his crow ends in a squawk. You better 
run along home now, ’fore it rains. 

Bub. I’ll go ’n’ I’ll tell dad, ’n’ then you’ll see. 
[Exits D. F.] 

Rube. Anythin’new this momin’? 

Tap. Nuthin pertickler. Here’s this week’s paper. 

Rube. [Takes it.] Thankee. [Sits at desk.] 

Tap. I’ve got t’ go ’n’ chop some wood. 

Rube. Wall, I’ll be here. [Tappam exits r. Rube 
reads aloud.] “Married—John Lyon and Mary Lamb, 
by the Rev. Jas. Beaver.’’ Quite a menagerie! “Tile 
Dawson, of Pineville, committed suicide last week.’’ 
That feller ’s allers up t’ suthin’t’ git his name in the 
papers. I wonder what he’ll do next? “Bill Peter’s 
horse ran away last Wednesday and flung him out and 
broke his arm, hurt his near hind foot, spoiled his 
clothes and finally tumbled into the creek, where he 
lay on his back kicking with all four feet, and he says 
the wagon is a total wreck.’’ Seems t’ me they’ve got 
Bill ’n’ th’ hoss kinder mixed up. “Aunt Keziah Wig¬ 
gins has our thanks for a nice pair of warm slippers, 
which we can also use next winter for ear muffs.’’ 
Nuthin’ like bein’ pervided fer any emergm/zcy. 
Hello! Well, durn his impudence! “Reuben Rodney, 
Esq., has returned from New York. Wonder if he 
bought any gold bricks while there?’’ No, I didn’t. I 
didn’t buy any gold bricks, but jes’ es likely es not I 
may hev a brick bat in my pocket th’ nex’ time I meet 
that editor ; an’ ef I should, I wouldn’t wonder ef 
there’d be an accident er suthin’. 

[Enter Taggs d. f.] 

Taggs. Hullo, Uncle Rube. 

Rube. Eh? [Looks around.] Why, it’s Taggs. 
Where ’d you drop from, Taggs? [Takes off spectacles 
and lays them on desk.] 


UNCLE RUBE. 


27 


Taggs. I took a toboggan slide down a load o’ hay. 
Talk about rapid transit! 

Rube. You fell off ’n a load o’ hay? 

Taggs. Naw. I slid off. I shot der chute. 

Rube. You’ll break yer neck one o’ these days. 

Taggs. Nixy I won’t; no fun in that. 

Rube. Are you goin’ ter like it here? 

Taggs. Ain’t I, just! 

Rube. Better’n New York? 

Taggs. Heaps. I like yous, an’ I likes yer grub fer 
fair. They ain’t no Gerry agents here, is they? 

Rube. Never hearn tell of any in this neck o’ th’ 
woojls. 

Taggs. C’rect. Say, Uncle Rube, der smooth ole 
guy is sore on yous, an’ it ain’t no fairy tale I’m hum- 
min’. 

Rube. Hey? 

Taggs. His nobs der ole blokie is puttin’ it away 
fer yous, he is fer fair—an’ dat’s no hot blast. 

Rube. Taggs, s’posin’ y’ talk United States awhile. 

Taggs. Wouldn’t dat kill yer! Yous ain’t up ter 
date. I mean as how der smoot’ ole trolley was blinkin’ 
his gigs—his weepers yer know— ouch! 

Rube. [Quietly rises' as Taggs begins speaking , crosses 
and takes her by the ear.] Now, ye consarned chatter¬ 
box, [Walks her to chair.] set down and talk suthin’ 
somebody kin tell suthin’ erbout, yer understand? 
[Seats her.] 

Taggs. Needn’t paralyze a feller. 

Rube. Go ahead, ’n’ mind yer cross yer t’s ’n’ dot 
yer i’s. 

Taggs. I had me peeps — eyes, y’ know — on der 
deacon. He’s got it in fer yous—I mean he’s dead set 
to do you if he has a chance. 

Rube. Think so? 

Taggs. Sure. 

Rube. Guess he’s mad erbout suthin’—hoss trade 
mebbe. I’ll know fer sure ef he tries t’ make a swop. 

Taggs. Ever had a scrap with his jiblets? 


28 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Rube. His what-lets? 

Taggs. Aw, I mean the Deacon. 

Rube. No, him an’ me don’t scrap much. We only 
git kinder sassy over ’lection once ’n a while. 

[.Enter Mrs. Bunn, Milicent and Gordon d. f.] 

Mrs. B. There he is—you can ask him. 

Mil. Uncle Rube- 

Rube. Hello, Milly! All come t’ town, eh? 

Mil. Yes. You see I—we—that is, Mrs. Bunn 
wants to know—she’ll tell you all about it. 

Mrs. B. The fact is we thought that—you know— 
go on, Milly. 

Mil. You ask him. 

Mrs. B No, you ask him. 

Rube. Ain’t gittin’ up a church sociable, be you? 

Both. Oh, no. 

Rube. Glad on’t. Ther last one I went to cost me 
’leven dollars fer ice cream ’n’ chances t’ draw things 
—’n’ all I drawed was a pair o’ ten cent mittens ’n’ a 
fit o’ cholera morbus. 

Mil. Ha, ha, ha! Oh, Uncle Rube! 

Rube. ’Twarn’t no joke, Milly. The mittens was 
too small ’n’ th’ doctor’s bill was too big. Say, [To 
Gordon.] do you know what these here female women 
want? 

Gor. Yes—just a little informal party at your house 
next week. 

Rube. Is that all? 

Mil. Yes. May we? 

Rube. Course you can. But it can’t be informal, 
’cause you’ll hev to inform folks about it, 

Gor. I mean it won’t be a full dress affair. 

Rube. Ah, ha—no swaller tail coats ner kid gloves, 
eh? That’s right. I never wore one o’ them sawed- 
off contraptions but once, ’n’ then I felt’s I was ruther 
consid’ble of a laundry advertisement. Now you better 
go over t’ the store ’n’ git what extra stuff you’ll want 
t’ bake with. 


UNCLE RUBE. 


29 


Mrs. B All right. Thank you ever so much. 
[Exit D. F.] 

Mil. You’re just the best, dearest old Uncle Rube 
that ever lived! [ Runs up, kisses him on the cheek, and 
exits, quickly, d. f., followed by Gordon and Taggs. ] 

Xtube. [Stands quietly for a moment, looking at audi¬ 
ence in open-mouthed astonishment. Then pats cheek 
with his fingers .] Ge-willikins! I ain’t so few arter 
all! I’m glad Mis’ Bunn didn’t see it. Mis’ Bunn ’s a 
charmin’ widder, ’n’ p’raps some day I’ll, [Pause.] ’n’ 
p’raps I won’t. It’s an awful tryin’ thing to pop th’ 
question to a widder. I guess I’ll go ’n’ sample Bill’s 
cider, ’n’ think about it. [Exit r.] 

[Enter Deacon and Mark d. f.] 

Dea. Nobody here; that’s good. 

Mark. Now, dad, what are you going to do? 

Dea. Ruin ole Rodney—ruin him, ruin him, do you 
hear? 

Mark. Easier said than done, dad. 

Dea. No, it ain’t. 

Mark. He’s too sharp. 

Dea. No, he isn’t. He’s on the make same’s any¬ 
body; and when a man sees a chance to make big 
money with little risk, he’ll bite. I know, for I’ve 
been there myself, an’ it cost me a lot of money afore 
I cut my eye teeth. 

Mark. That must have been a long time ago, dad. 

Dea. You’re right, my son. The only time I’ve 
been caught in forty year was by old Rodney on a hoss 
trade, an’ I guess I’ll even things up now. 

Mark. [Goes up and looks cautiously r. and l.] The 
coast is clear. Now, what’s your scheme. Talk fast. 

Dea. He is agent in charge of the big marble quar¬ 
ries, and they’re up for sale at a bargain. 

Mark. What of that? 

Dea. Everything. I’m goin’ to buy ’em — ten 
thousand dollars spot cash, an’ I’ve got the money 


30 


UNCLE RUBE. 


right here. [ Produces large envelope .] Ten one thou¬ 
sand dollar bills. 

Mark. Well, and what of that? 

Bea. He’ll count the money, seal it up, take it up 
to Rutland and leave it just as it is, in the bank for 
safe keepin’. 

Mark. Great Scott, dad, I don’t see- 

Bea. Wait a minute. [In a cautious , half whisper .] 
Suppose by some queer accident like, the envelope he 
deposits should contain nothin’ but blank paper when 
he comes to open it? 

Mark. [ Whistles. ] Great scheme. How’ll you 
work it? 

Bea. Leave that to me. I’ve got it all fixed. 

Mark. You’re a slick one, dad. The “old boy’’ 
down below isn’t a marker to you. 

Bea. [Tartly.] Now don’t get personal. 

Mark. [Looks r.] Watch out—he’s coming. [They 
go up l. c.] 


[Enter Rube r. ] 

Rube. That there cider’s got a pretty hefty tang 
to it. It’s durn near vinegar, I guess—er some other 
temp’rance fluid. [Goes c. Mark goes r.] 

Bea. [Coming dozvn l.] Good day, Reuben. 

Rube. How de do, Deacon? How y’ are, Mark? 

Mark, Well, thanks. How are you? 

Rube. Able t’ putter ’round. [All sit , Rube c.] I 
see you leggin’ it fer home purty fast yes’day. Any 
bad news? 

Bea. No. Your infernal bees got after me. ' 

Rube. Did they sting you? 

Bea. Did they? I should say they did. 

Rube. They’re a mighty disrep’ble lot of insects. 
Sting anythin’. Even got arter Bub Green—an’ I 
thought that was their limit. 

Bea. That fool of a dude from New York upset the 
hive. 



UNCLE RUBE. 


3i 


Rube. I know it. Say, he’s a caution. This 
mornin’ he got an auger and went t’ borin’ into one o’ 
my apple trees; an’ w’en I asked him what he was 
doin’ he sez he was tappin’ the tree fer cider. An’ 
say —a little while arter that he come out with a bas¬ 
ket ’n’ a ladder lookin’ fer the pertater orchard. 

Dea. Oh, git out! 

Rube. He did fer a fact. He’s a circus. Asked Ike 
if butterflies give butter, ’n’ wanted t’ know if we 
raised hops from grasshoppers. It’s worth ten cents 
jes’t’ hear him talk ’n’ see the clothes he wears. 

Dea. Speakin’ o’ money, Rube, how about that 
marble quarry? 

Rube. She’s there, Deacon, waitin’ fer a buyer. 

Dea. An’ won’t nuthin’ less than ten thousand 
fetch it? 

Rube. Nuthin’ less. They wouldn’t take nine thou¬ 
sand nine hunnered ’n’ ninety-nine dollars’ ’n’ ninety- 
nine cents. They’re harder ’n nails, them folks. 
They’ve sot their price ’n’ they won’t budge. 

Dea. Guess you couldn’t work in a swop somehow 
in part pay? 

Rube. No. Wish I could. Might a got rid of it 
long ago in a swop. But them folks want cash—spot 
cash on the nail. 

Dea. We could talk better if we had a drop to wet 
our whistles, don’t you think? 

Rube. Mebbe that’s so, I feel kinder like lubri¬ 
catin’. 

Dea. I’ve heard that our friend’s cider is rather— 
that is—you know— 

Rube. Yes—Bill’s cider is ruther, you know. 

Dea. He wouldn’t object? 

Rube. Guess not. Ef you kin stand a nip of it Bill 
won’t gig. 

Dea. {Going r. zvith Rube.] Will you come, Mark? 

Mark. No, thank you. When I drink I want the 
real thing. [Deacon exits r.] 

Rube, The real thing? Mark, my boy, there ain’t 


32 


UNCLE RUBE. 


nuthin’ realer anywheres. Bill’s cider is a conglomifi- 
cation of Jarsey lightnin’, Indianny apple jack, Ohio 
tanglefoot ’n’ ole mountain dew. Better come ’n’ 
sample it. 

Mark. No, thanks. And don’t let father sample too 
much of it. 

Rube. No danger. I guess the deacon is pizen 
proof. [ Exits r.] 

Mark. He’s right. My beloved parent is a tough 
citizen; although but few are aware of it. Humbug! 
It’s humbug that wins, and the good deacon is a past 
master at that.. 


[Enter Milicent d. f.] 

Mil. [Speaking as she enters.} Now, Uncle Rube, 

we’ve got everything except- [Sees Mark.] Oh, I 

beg pardon. 

Mark. Miss Lee—this is a pleasure. 

Mil. I thought that Mr. Rodney was here, and,- 

Mark. He has just left with my father. If you are 
going home, may I not have the pleasure of accompa- 
nying you? 

Mil. Thank you, but I came in with Mrs. Bunn, 
and- 

Mark. And Mr. Gray, I suppose. 

Mil. Oh, yes, there was a wagon load of us. 

Mark. But I have my own carriage, Miss Lee, and 
you will find it much easier than the farm wagon. 

Mil. Thank you again; but I found the farm 
wagon, as you call it, no end of fun, and I shall return 
as I came. 

Mark. My usual luck. At least I may sit on the 
fence and see you drive by? 

Mil. [Amused. ] Yes—you may do that—if you’ll 
be good and not scare the horses. [They start up .] 

Mark. Am I such a fright? 

Mil Oh, I’ve seen worse. [Exeunt, laughmg, d. f.] 




UNCLE RUBE. 


33 


[Enter Rube and Deacon r. ] 

Rube. Hem! Wall now, Deacon, s’pose we kinder 
pick up the stitches where we dropped ’em ’n’ go 
ahead with th’ business. 

Dea. Very well, Reuben. Business is what I come 
t’ talk. [They sit at table .] Now ef I pay you over 
the ten thousand dollars an’ you give me a receipt I 
guess that binds things, don’t it? 

Rube. I guess it does. But hadn’t you better make 
a dicker with the owners direct? 

Dea. Yes—if you want to lose your commission. 

Rube. I ain’t hankerin’ t’ lose it. 

Dea. Then here’s the money. Count it. [Gives 
Rube large envelope containing bills .] Ten one thou¬ 
sand dollar bills. 

Rube. [Counts aloud. ] Keerect, Deacon. Great 
grasshoppers! What a snack o’ cider that would buy, 
wouldn’t it? 

Dea. Shouldn’t wonder. Now seal ’er up. [Rube 
replaces bills in envelope , which he seals.] You can de¬ 
posit it in the bank an’ pay it over when the deed is 
delivered. But first write out the receipt. 

Rube. Wall, where’s my specs? [Looks around.] 
Oh, there they be. [Goes to desk and gets spectacles. As 
he does this the Deacon pockets the envelope , replacing it 
with a duplicate. This is observed by Taggs, who appears 
at d f. Rube returns to the table and pockets the envel¬ 
ope.] How’s that receipt to read? 

Dea. ’Most anything ’ll do. Set down an’ I’ll tell 
you. [Rube sits at desk. Taggs disappears.] 

Rube. Fire away. [Writes as Deacon dictates.] 

Dea. “Received of Simon Smailey, ten thousand 
dollars, same being his money, to pay for the marble 
quarry of which I am agent. He to have the deed 
within a week or I return his money. Reuben Rod¬ 
ney. ’’ Got it? 

Rube. Yep. A week’s kinder hurry up, ain’t it? 
Guess I’ll go ’n’ telegram ’em. Ther boss man o’ th’ 


34 


UNCLE RUBE. 


concern ’s ’n Boston, ’n’ es you’re in such a stew about 
it I’ll hev him up here between a couple o’ days. 

Bea. All right, Reuben—sooner the better. [ Pockets 
receipt. ] 

Rube. Wall, I’ll be off, es tli’ fly said when he lit 
on a hot stove. I’ll put this here envelope in th’ bank 
fer safe keep, ’n' then send off that there telegraph. 
So, good day, Deacon. [Exits d. f.] 

Dea. Good day, Reuben, good day. [Up c.] That’s 
right, Reuben, that’s right; put it in the bank fer 
safety. [Comes dozen a little. ] They’ll take good care 
of it—an envelope full of blank paper, while I’ve got 
the first envelope with the money in it right here, ha, 
ha, ha! [Laughsand rubs hands. ] Yes, and the receipt, 
too. [Takes receipt from pocket and looks at it.] The 
money and the receipt. I’ll ruin him, ruin him. 
That’s right, Reuben! Ha, ha, ha! Put it in the 
bank, Reuben, put it in the bank! [Stands c., looking 
at receipt. Slow music.] 

CURTAIN. 


ACT III. 

Scene.— Kitchen in the Rodney homestead , in pth 
grooves. Doors l. in flat , r. u. e. and l. i. e. See 
“Scene Plot" for stage settings. Music: “Dozen on the 
farm fl for rise. 

[Enter Ike d. f. with armful of zeood , which he places 

on the floor beside stove. ] 

Ike. Gee! Ef th’ weather ain’t took a sudden flop 
I d’ know. It’s come off colder’n blixum. It’s a dum 
sight more like Thanksgivin’ time then th’ first of 
October. Goin’t’ be a party here t’night, ’n’ they’re 
goin’ t’ play snap ’n’ ketch ’em too. Bet they won’t 
ketch me. I’ll dig out som’ers. I never was nothin’ 
much when it comes t’ kissin’ games. [Exits l. i. e.] 



UNCLE RUBE. 


35 


[Enter Mark and Milicent d. f.] 

Mark. Am I here ahead of time? 

Mil. There was no particular hour named. 

Mark. Delightfully rural, isn’t it? 

Mil. Would you have it anything else? [Sits r.] 

Mark. I? Oh, no. Country life is delightful, no 
doubt, to people who are accustomed to it. 

Mil. [A mused. ] Then you should like it. 

Mark. But I don’t. True, I passed my boyhood 
here, but I always detested farm life. The same dull 
routine, day after day—it is enough to drive a man 
insane. 

Mil. It is rather quiet. 

Mark. In the city there is life, sparkle, pleasure— 
something to live for — something to arouse one’s 
ambition. 

Mil. Yes? 

Mark. There is where you should be instead of 
vegetating here. 

Mil. But I am not competent to teach in a city 
school. 

Mark. Teach? 

Mil. Why, yes. That’s all I’m fitted for. 

Mark. Oh, no, it isn’t. 

Mil. What then? 

Mark. You are fitted to shine in society—to grace 
an assembly—to be a leader among the best of them— 
to adorn the home of the fortunate man who wins you. 
[Pause .] Miss Lee, Milly, you must know how dear 
you have grown to me. Let me take you out of this 
dull life, this daily round of hard, thanldess toil. Be 
my wife, Milly, and you shall nev r er regret it. 

Mil. [Rising. ] I thank you sincerely, Mr. Smailey, 
but I cannot accept your offer. 

Mark. And why not? You shall have everything 
that money can buy, and you will find life in the city 
far different from what it is here. 

Mil. But I am perfectly satisfied here. 


36 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Mark. And perhaps you prefer that beggarly 
artist. 

Mil. You are forgetting yourself. Remember, 
please, that Mr. Gray is a gentleman. 

Mark. Does he say that I am not? 

Mil. He has never done you the honor of mention¬ 
ing your name in my presence. 

Mark. Then it’s old Rodney, eh? Well, that old 
hayseed won’t be so flip when he finds that that ten 
thousand dollars- 

Rube. [ Who has entered d. f. on above speech .] 
Well, what about that air ten thousand dollars? 

Mark. Eh? Oh—n-nothing, only the week is up 
to-day. 

Rube. Yas, ’n’ I s’pose th’ feller from Boston’s up 
t’ Rutland, ’n’ hes got th’ money by this time. 

Mark. Has he? Then of course everything is all 
right. 

Rube. Yas. This here old hayseed, es you call him, 
ginerally means t’ be jest erbout all right. Say, Mark, 
you look kinder riled up ’bout suthin’. Ain’t got th’ 
toothache, be you? 

Mark. No, thank you. 

Rube. Glad on it. [Goes r.] We’re goin’ t’ .cut 
some capers here bime by, ’n’ you’re welcome t’ stay 
ef you won’t look so dumbed grumpy. [Exit r. u. e.] 

Mil. [Starts ap r.] If you will excuse me- 

Mark. Just a moment [She pauses .] Won’t you 
please sit down? 

Mil. I really wish that you would excuse me. 

Mark. I will be brief. Just give me a few moments. 

Mil Well. [Sits as before.'] 

Mark. I presume I was too abrupt. Perhaps I 
should not have spoken yet. But my love for you was 
so sincere, so wholly unselfish, that I felt I must do so. 
I am truly sorry if I spoke too soon. And I must tell 
you that- 

Rube. [Entering r. u. e.] Excuse me fer inter¬ 
ruptin’, but I jest happened t’ think o’ suthin’. Say, d’ 


UNCLE RUBE. 


37 


you think th’ deacon ’ll be likely t’ drop in fer a spell 
t’night? 

Mark. I can’t say. 

Rube. Wish he would, b’ gee! I’d like—ha, ha, 
ha!—I’d like t’ git him into a game o’ snap ’n’ ketch 
’em! [Exit r. u. e.] 

Mil. Is there anything more? 

Mark. Yes. Do you dislike me? 

Mil. No, I do not. Why should I? 

Mark. Then why are you in such haste to get away? 

Mil. Because I-oh, because you seem unwilling 

to accept my answer as final. 

Mark. So I am. I want you to take a sober second 
thought before you decide. You are born to a higher 
life than teaching these thick headed country dolts. 

Mil. You attended the school where I teach, did 
you not? 

Mark. Yes, but I- 

Mil. Were you one of those country dolts? 

Mark. I don’t see the application. 

Mil. Indeed? 

Mark. I hope you don’t class me with the young 
bucolics of this neighborhood. 

Mil. No, I do not; for some of our noblest men and 
women came from the farms, and were educated in 
our little country schools. 

Mark. Thank you. 

Mil. Oh, I’m not speaking of you, Mr. Smailey. 
[Crosses l.] The boys I teach have not had your city 
polish; but what they lack in that they make up in true 
nobility and genuine manhood! [Exit l. i e.] 

Mark. [Looking after her.] I don’t believe that she 
is particularly smitten with me. Blast the luck! And 
that mining property of hers is worth an immense for¬ 
tune—only she doesn’t know it. That is why my 
excellent old dad wants me to marry her. Perhaps he 
isn’t as rich as he pretends. I believe I can thank old 
Rodney for her refusal. I’d like to wring his con¬ 
founded neck! 



38 


UNCLE RUBE. 


[Enter Rube r. u. e.] 

Rube. What chicken are you talkin’ of now, Mark? 

Mark. No chicken at all—just a turkey buzzard. 

Rube. That so? Wall now, I guess a turkey buz¬ 
zard’s neck ’s kinder apt t’ be tough. Say, Mark, 
you’re actin’ like a dog with a sore head. What’s 
wrong, anyhow? 

Mark. It’s none of your affair, is it? 

Rube. No, sonny, it ain’t, sure enough. 

Mark. Then if you attend to your own business you 
will be better off. 

Rube. [ Restraining himself '.] Good night, ’n’ be 

quick about it. 

Mark. Bah! I’d like to smack your face! [ Steps up 
to Rube. They look at each other for an instant, then 
clinch, and Mark is thrown. ] 

Rube. Y’ see, it didn’t work. Funny you never 
larned how t’ rassle. 

Mark. [Rising. ] I’ll square accounts with you 
later. 

Rube. Then I may ’s well hev good measure. 

[Opens d. f., then runs Mark up and kicks him out. 
Hurry music during this .] There, b’ gee! Ef I hadn’t 
a done that I’d lost my temper, ’n’ then somebody ’d 
a got hurt. [Exit r. u. e.] 

[Enter Mrs. Bunn and Taggs l. ] 

Mrs. B. Now, Taggs, you want to fly around. 
[Goes up and puts wood in stove.] 

Taggs. All right, auntie. [Elaps her arms, runs 
about, then jumps upon chair and crows.] 

Mrs B. Land sakes alive, Taggs! What are you 
doing? 

Taggs. Flyin’. [Crows, then jumps dozvn.] 

Mrs. B. Well, of all the crazy—here, go fill the tea 
kettle. 

, Taggs. Cert. [Takes tea kettle from stove, meets 
Upson at d. f. Gives him kettle.] Here, go fill this. 



UNCLE RUBE. 


39 


Up. Yas—what with? 

Taggs. Water. W-a-t, wat, t-a-r, ter, water. 

Up. Eh? What kind- 

Taggs. The wet kind, nummy. Dry water ain’t 
any good. Do hurry up. 

Up. Yas. * [Exits d. f. , very slowly. ] 

Mrs. B. See if them biscuits are done. 

Taggs. [Looks in oven.] They smell doneish. 

Mrs. B. [. Putting spread on table .] Well, put ’em 
in the pantry. 

Taggs. [ Draws out pan and drops it.~\ Wow! 

Mrs. B. Land sakes! What now? 

Taggs. [Waving hands rapidly.] I—burned—my— 
fingers! 

Mrs. B. Use your apron, child. [Taggs does so, 
picking up pan, and exits r. u. e.] 

Up [Entering with tea kettle, d. f.] Here’s the 
water. 

Mrs. B. Thank you. Put it on the stove. 

Up. [Does so.] All right. Had some trouble to 
get it. 

Mrs. B. [Placing dishes on table.] How was that? 

Up. There was a cow there getting a dwink, and 
she objected, you know. 

Mrs. B. Whatl You got that at the water trough? 

Up. Why, yas—she said- 

Mrs. B. Oh-h! Take it out and empty it—quick! 

Up. But I cawn’t see why I should. [Down l.] 

Mrs. B. I’ll show you why. [Grabs broom and hits 
him. He runs up, crosses to r. shouting “stop! get 
out! murder! fire! police!’’ As he passes r. u. e., 
she strikes at him but hits Rube, who enters carrying 
dish of potato salad. ] 

Rube. Christopher Columbus! There ain’t no flies 
on me. [Puts salad on table.] Ef I’d a dropped this 
here petater salad I’d a said suthin’ sure ’s guns. 

Mrs. B. He filled the tea kettle at the horse trough. 

Rube. Wall, don’t tell th’ hosses. [Upson exits d. f.] 

Mrs. B. We’ll never get supper at this rate. 


40 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Rube. Oh, yes, we will. [Goes to stove. ] This here 
teapot’s full o’ hot water already. So we had all this 
old rumpus f’r nuthin’. 

Mrs. B. Anyway, you needn’t be cross, Reuben 
Rodney. 

Rube. Cross, Maria? Was I ever cross with you? 

Mrs. B. No, nor with anybody else. You’re the 
bestnatured man living, and I’m an ugly old crank, so 
there! 

Rube. It wouldn’t be healthy weather for any man 
t’ say that, ’f I happened t’ be loppin’ ’round in his 
neighborhood. 

Mrs. B. Would you care? 

Rube. Care? Jumpin’ polliwogs! Care? Why, 
Maria, there ain’t nuthin’ this side o’ kingdom come 
that I care fer ’s much ’s I— [Catches her eye , pauses; 
aside. ] Oh, beeswax! [Crosses. ] 

Mrs. B. [Aside.\ Land o’ Goshen! What was he 
going to say? 

Rube. Maria, you won’t git mad ’n’ think I’m an 
old fool ef I tell you a little story, will you? 

Mrs. B. I’m sure I won’t. 

Rube. Then come here ’n’ set down. 

Mrs. B. Wait till I put the tea a-steeping. 

Rube. All right. [She gets tea caddy from cup¬ 
board. ] 

Mrs. B. [Putting in the tea .] You won’t be long, 
will you? Supper’s about ready. 

Rube. No, I’ll boil it down. [She comes doum. they 
sit r.] Now, Maria, I jes’ want to say— [She Zooks at 
him .] Wait a minute. [Goes to cupboard , puts several 
ears of pop corn in a pan , resumes scat and shells the 
corn while speaking. ] It’s about a boy. 

Mrs. B. [ Disappointed .] Oh! I thought it was 

about a man. 

Ptube. He is a man now, but he had t’ be a boy at 
th’ beginnin’. 

Mrs. B. Well, go on, Reuben. [Soft music through 
follozving speech .] 



UNCLE RUBE. 


4i 


Rube. Yes. Now once upon a time, es they say in 
th’ story books, there was a boy—jes’ an ord’nary 
freckle-faced, stub-toed runt of a boy. When he was a 
little shaver, ’bout knee high to a grasshopper, his 
folks died, ’n’ he had t’ hump t’ take care of his little 
sisters. So he hadn’t much chance t’ learn grammar 
ner th’ ways o’ fine society; ’11’ as fer gals—they was a 
conundrum t’ him. 

Mrs. B. And he gave them up? 

Rube. That’s what he did. [ They move their chairs 
nearer .] When he got to be a man it was the same 
thing, till all of a sudden he saw a light. 

Mrs. B. What kind of a light, Reuben? [Both move 
nearer. ] 

Rube. A matrimonial light—I b’lieve they call it 
th’ torch of Hyman er suthin’. 

Mrs. B. Who carries it? 

Rube. A widder. {Shells corn vigorously .] 

Mrs. B. Oh! 

Rube. Yes; ’n’ say, that ole skeezicks of a feller’s 
more ’n fifty year old. 

Mrs. B. That’s just in the prime of life. 

Rube. Think so? 

Mrs. B. Why, yes. Besides she’s most forty. 

Rube. Then d’ you think— {Pauses, shells corn 
faster .] 

Mrs. B. Yes- 

Rube. She’d have him? 

Mrs. B. He might ask her. 

Rube. Durn it, I will! I'm the feller, you’re th’ 
widder, ’n’ what do you say? 

Mrs. B. I say yes. 

Rube. Hooray! {Embraces her and spills the corn.] 
Jumpin’ caterpillars! [ Both rise.] 

[Enter Taggs r., Upson d. f., Gordon and Milicent l.] 

Mrs. B. Well, I never! [Goes up, gets broom and 
dust pan.] 



42 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Rube. [ Crosses to Gordon.] Y’ see it was jest like 
this. 

Gor. That was just what I thought. 

Mrs. B. Here, Taggs. [ Gives her the dust pan to 
hold while she szveeps up the corn.] If ever there was a 
clumsy man! 

Gor. I congratulate you. When does it come off? 

Rube. [ Bashfully .] Oh, shucks! Get out! 

Taggs. Uncle Rube said he’d be my father, an’ 
now I’m giftin’ a mother, too. Hooray! [ Goes up , 
puts dust pan on table, and broom beside clipboard.] 

Mrs. B. Well, if ever I- 

Mil. [ Who has been up c., now comes down and 
kisses her, speaking in dumb shoiv.] 

Gor. [Aside to Rube.] I’m in the same boat. 

Rube. [Pointing with thumb over shoulder towards 
Milicent. ] 

Gor. Yes—we’re engaged. 

Rube. Put ’er thar! [Shakes Gordon’s hands vigor¬ 
ously.] We’ll all git married t’gether, b’ gosh! Come 
now, let’s hurry up supper. 

Mil. Can I help? 

Rube. No, siree. You ’n’ Gor set down ’n’ talk. 
Me ’n’ Taggs ’n’ Maria ’ll ’tend t’ th’ grub. 

Mrs. B. We’re only having a light supper. 

Rube. There’s other things t’ folier. Y’ might finish 
shellin’ th’ corn, though. [Sees dust pan on table.] Hey, 
Taggs! I want my fodder ground! [Taggs takes pan 
from table and exits r u. e. Re-enters with biscuits , 
which she places on table. Then she and Mrs. Bunn 
bring on pie, cake , butter, sugar, milk, etc. Rube brings 
pan of corn to Gordon and Milicent, who are seated r. 
front.] Now go ahead a shell, ’n’ ef you find a red 
ear, you know what. [Goes up.] 

Mil. What does he mean about a red ear? 

Gor. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s good luck to find 
one-. 

Rube. Hear that now! Ef thar ain’t a couple o’ 
greenies! Plain t’ see you two ain’t farmers. 



UNCLE RUBE. 


43 


Gor. Well, what does it mean? 

Rube. Shall we show ’em, Maria? 

Mrs. B. What? 

P-ube. Shall we show ’em what it means t’ find a 
red ear o’ corn? 

Mrs. B. Right before folks? I guess not. 

Rube. All right. I’m kinder bashful myself. 

Mil. But what is it? 

Rube. Want t’ know real bad? 

Mil. Certainly I do. 

Gor. Of course we do. 

Rube. Wall then, it means t’ git suthin’ that you 
kin give away by the million ’n’ still hev jest es many 
left es you had at fust. [Goes up.] 

Gor. 1 know what he means. 

Mil. What? 

Gor. This. [Draws her to him and kisses her.] 

Taggs. Spoons! 

Rube. There’s spoons on the table already. Come, 
come! [Bustles about .] Have I got to get supper all 
by myself? [All laugh .] 

Mrs. B. Now do listen to that man! 

[Enter Bub Green d. f.] 

Bub. Howdy du, ever’body. 

Rube. Why, how air ye, Bub? Jest in time fer a 
snack o’ supper. 

Bub. Guess I be. Eatin’ allers agrees with me. 

Mrs B. Supper’s ready. 

Taggs. [Takes tin pan and drums on it.] Supper! 
Supper! Supper! 

Rube. Hold yer noise. This ain’t no railroad sta¬ 
tion. Now set by ever’body. [Rube sits at head of 
table, facing the audience . Mrs. Bunn sits at his right 
hand , Gordon next to her, then Milicent. Bub at foot of 
table, back to audience, Taggs next, then Upson. The 
scat at Rube’s left hand is vacant.] 

Mrs. B. Why, where’s Ike? 


44 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Rube. I dunno. [Calls.'] Ike! Ike! I—ke! 

Ike. [Off l. i. e.] What you want? 

Rube. Come in here. [Ike enters l. i. e.] Come 
on. Supper’s ready. 

Ike. I’d ruther wait. 

Rube. Ye would, eh? [Goes to Ike, takes him by 
the collar and seats him. ] Now, then, ever’body help 
yourselves, ’n’ ef y* don’t see what y’ want, sing out. 
Will you pour out th’ tea, Maria? [Business of eating 
is continued daring the following speeches .] 

Bub. I want mine powerful sweet. 

Mrs. B. All right. 

Taggs. [To Bub, who is eating voraciously.'] Say, 
how much kin yous eat w’en yer pushed? 

Bub. [With his mouthfull. ] Much’s—I—kin—git. 

Taggs. Yous a bird. 

Bub. I—ugh—ugh! [ Chokes , starts to rise and 
Unnbles over. Rube and Gordon pick him up. Rube 
slaps his backC\ 

Rube. Don’t need t’ hurry, Bub. Got all night t’ 
eat in, an’ there ain’t no train t’ ketch. 

Bub. She made me talk. 

Rube. Taggs, don’t do that any more. Bub can’t 
talk and eat too. Some folks is built that way. 
[All sit.] Speakin’ of eatin’ reminds me of Hank 
Jimson. He’s runnin’ a hotel down in Maine. I was 
over t’ his place last spring. Had four kinds o’ meat 
fer dinner—lamb, ram, sheep ’n’ mutton. An’ say, 
they had five kinds o’ pie—pie, apple pie, cold pie, 
warm pie, ’n’ hot pie. 

Bub. Gee! Wish I’d a ben in your place! 

Rube. Say, Gord, ef you ’n’ Milly ’ll pay more 
attention t’ supper ’n’ less t’ each other you’ll git more 
grub. 

Gor. We’re doing well, thank you. 

Rube. Take pattern by me ’n’ Maria. She’s jes’ 
dyin’ t’ have me hug her, ’n’ so’m I, but dumbed ’f 
I’ll do it. 

Mrs. B. Reuben Rodney! 




UNCLE RUBE. 


45 


Ike. Say, I fergot t’ tell you thet w’en I wus 
bringin’ thet package o’ tea home th’ paper busted an’ 
I guess some terbacker got mixed in with it. [Con¬ 
tinues eating. All the others stop suddenly , and lean 
back in their chairs. Pause . ] 

Rube. [ Slowly and distinctly .] Isaac, is there any 
pertickler way in which you’d like ter die? 

Ike. Now, Rube, I- 

Rube. Ef you’ve any choice, speak right up ’n’ 
we’ll try ’n’ a’comerdate, 

Mrs. B. Never mind, folks. I didn’t use any of that 
tea, I had a drawin’ left over. 

Rube. That saves you, Ike. But I’ll charge that 
air pound o’ tea up t’ you—I will, b’ gee! 

Ike. Then I’ll hafter mix it with my terbacker ’n’ 
smoke it. 

Rube. Good idea, too. Be an improvement on 
what you giner’ly smoke. 

Gor. When you were in New York, did you go to 
the theatre, Uncle Rube? 

Rube. Wall, no. I did calkerlate on goin’, but I 
changed my mind. 

Gor. How was that? 

Rube. Y’ see, one evenin’ I was walkin’ along with 
a feller I knowed, ’n’ he said: “Let’s drop in to 
Keith’s.’’ I s’posed Keith was a friend o’ liissen, so in 
we went. It were a big room with seats kinder 
roundin’, ’n’ th’ floor pinted down some. Way at th’ 
tother end was a sectin’ room, ’n’ jes’ es we got sot 
down an old feller who were in th’ settin’ room begun 
t’ tell a mighty pretty gal ’bout how he seen a theatre. 

Gor. What did he say? 

Rube. I can’t remember it all, but th’ pint was 
thet he’d been t’ see a theatre th’ night afore. Said it 
were a purty nice theatre—covered th’ whole side o’ 
the wall. Said th’ folks must a liked it, fer they begun 
ter clap ’n’ stamp, ’n’ then a whole passle o’ fellers 
come up outer th’ cellar ’n’ begun t’ fiddle like all cre¬ 
ation. 


46 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Mil. That was the orchestra. 

Rube. Yes, he ’lowed it might a ben. Then he 
said all of a sudden th’ durn theatre went right up 
through tli’ roof; an’ there were a room behind it, ’n’ 
some folks come in ’n’ begun t’ talk ’bout things thet 
didn’t consarn him, so he got up hi’ went out. So 
thinks, sez I, ef thet’s what a theatre is, I won’t 
invest. 

Gor. But you were in a theatre then. 

Rube. Git out! 

Gor. Yes, you were. And the “old” man you saw 
was Arthur Sidman, the comedian, a young fellow 
about my age. 

Rube. Now look here, Gord; maybe I might be in 
a theatre ’thout knowin’ it; but I guess I know th’ dif¬ 
ference twixt you ’n’ a grizzled old geezer like him. 
[A knock at d. f.] Hark! Is that somebody knockin’? 
[Knock repeated .] Visitors, I guess. [ Opens door.] 
Come in. [ Fur ns to the others .] It’s Bill Tappam. 
Come in, Bill. What made y’ stop t’ knock? [Tappam 
enters , keeps hat on , hands in pocket of overcoat , and 
conies slowly down.] Take off yer coat ’n’ hev some 
supper. 

Tap. No, thankee, Rube. [Down l. front.] 

Rube. [Conies down.] What’s th’ matter, Bill? 
Any o’ yer folks sick? [Deacon enters d. f. Remains 
near door.] 

Tap. No. [Gordon and Milicent rise and come 
down r. front. Bub rises and goes up r. Taggs, Upson 
and Ike go up l. Mrs. Bunn rises and stands beside 
table. Taggs exits d. f.] 

Rube. But suthin’ hes gone wrong, Bill. Tell me 
what it is, old friend. Y’ know y’ kin count on me. 

Tap. Say, Rube, y’ won’t blame me? 

Rube. Blame you, Bill? What fer? That dog o’ 
yourn liain’t been killin’ my sheep, hes he? 

Tap. No. 

Rube. Then fer th’ love o’ land, what ails y’? 

Tap. I argified with him, Rube. I said prob’ly 


UNCLE RUBE. 


47 


yu’d break his dum’d head, ’n’ serve him right. But 
ef I didn’t do it he’d a got somebody else. 

Rube. Bill, what on arth are y’ talkin’ ’bout? 

Bill. [Sees Deacon.] Here, Deacon, come ’n’ tell 
yer own story. Blam’d ’f I’m goin’ t’. 

Bea. [Down extremes.} It’s simple enough. 
[Harshly. ] That deal for the marble quarry’s off. 

Rube. I don’t care ’f it is. 

Bea. You orter, though. The Boston man come 
up, an’ everything was all right—papers made out an’ 
all that. But when the banker handed out the envel¬ 
ope all sealed up jus’ es you got it- 

Rube. Wall, what? 

Bea. There wasn’t a cent in it—nuthin’ only blank 
paper. 

Rube. What! 

Bea. That’s just what. I seen ’em open it with my 
own eyes, an’ there wasn’t a cent in it. 

Rube. But I put it in myself. 

Bea. What o’ that? It ain’t there now. So I’ll 
trouble you fer the ten thousand dollars, Reuben. 

Rube. Now, Deacon, y’ know I ain’t got it. 

Bea. No, I don’t. But I do know I’ve got yer re¬ 
ceipt fer my money—mine—ter be returned me t’-day 
unless the sale was made. 

Rube. Good heavens ’n’ arth, Deacon, y’ don’t 
suppose- 

Bea. I’m not supposin’ anythin’. I want my 
money, but I won’t be mean about it. If you’ve lost 
it you kin turn this here farm an’ what other property 
you have over t’ me, an’ I’ll call it square. 

Rube. Afore I’d do that I’d see y’ buried head 
furst in th’ mud t’ yer shoe tops. 

Bea. You would, eh? Very well—I’m done. Bill, 
do yer duty. [Bill turns away and goes up stage a 
lit t ie. ] > 

Rube. [Pauses, looks at Beacon.] What d’ you mean 
by that, Deacon? [Pause. ] Come, now, speak up. 
What does it mean? 


4 8 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Dea. [ Comes to Bube.] What does it mean? Wall, 
I’ll tell you. [Savagely.] When I found my money 
was gone I suspicioned you might run away with it. 
So I swore out a warrant to arrest you, an’ Bill’s got it. 

Bube. [As if dazed.\ A warrant to arrest me? 

Mrs. B. Don’t you let him do it, Joshua. You 
ought to be ashamed of yourself, Deacon Smailey— 
and you, too, Bill Tappam. [Very soft , plaintive music 
until end.\ 

Rube. Don’t blame Bill, Maria. Bill feels es mean 
’s I do. 

Mil. [Crosses to Bube and embraces him .] Uncle 
Rube, I know you didn’t do it; and I- [Bows her 

head on his arm. ] 

Bube. So do I, Milly. But, there, don’t cry. 

Gor. Can I do anything? 

Bube. No, thankee, Gordon. There, Milly. [ She 
returns to Gordon.] Well, Bill; [Pajise.\ I’m yer pris- 
iner, I s’pose, ’n’ I’m ready t’ go. 

Dea. You better put the handcuffs on him, Bill. 

Bube. What? Handcuff me? [Seizes Deacon by the 
throat and shakes him violently .] Y’ dirty, pizen rattle¬ 
snake! If I don’t have you behind th’ bars in forty- 
eight hours, there ain’t no Yankee blood left in my 
gizzard! [Flings him down. Music: Quick march .] 

CURTAIN. 


ACT IV. 

Scene. — Same as Act II. Lively music at rise. 

[Enter Taggs and Upson l.] 

Taggs. Come along, Upsy. 

Up. Yas—but me name- 

Taggs. . Oh, shoot yer name. Say, nibs, I never 
seen a court run so, did you? 




UNCLE RUBE. 


49 


Up. I nevah saw any court, ye knaw, except a ten¬ 
nis court. 

Taggs. Ah, git out-say, wasn’t you never run in? 

Up. Run in what? 

Taggs. Wouldn’t that kill yer! Why, run in by a 
cop—pinched, see? 

Up. You mean awested? 

Taggs. Sure, Mike. 

Up. Good gwacious, no. 

Taggs. Well, yous too good fer any use. Say, I’d 
like ter git a soak at dat old pill box of a deacon. 
Tryin’ ter git Uncle Rube held fer swipin’ his cash. 
An’ settin’ so oily an’ smoot’, an’ sanctimonious. 

Up. Yas—he did look that way. Say, Miss Taggs, 
do you know, I weally think the deacon is a wegular 
old—old dayvil—there, now! 

Taggs. [Slaps his back .] Hurrah for yous! Say, 
nibs, dot justice wot’s der main guy give me der run 
out; but if he holds Uncle Rube fer de Grand Jury as 
dat old deacon wants him to, I’ll tell a spiel wot’ll 
make his hair curl. 

Up. Yas? What is it? 

Taggs. Never you mind. I’m nex’ ter a good 
thing. [. Nudges him.] Yous ’ll find out. 

Up. Yas—only I object to being called a “thing.” 

Taggs. [ Aside .] Ain’t he cute! 

[Enter Milicent and Mrs. Bunn d. f.] 

Mrs. B. What are they doing now, Taggs? 

Taggs. Chewin’ der same old string. 

Mrs. B. Is that mean old Deacon Smailey in there? 

Taggs. Sure. 

Mrs. B. Who would believe anything he says? 

Taggs. Give us an easy one. 

Mrs. B. Well, I’m going to see what’s going on. 
[Goes l.] 

Taggs. Yous’ll git a run out. [Milicent sits r.] 

Mrs. B. Run me out? Well, I should like to see 
them try it! [Exits l.] 


5° 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Taggs. Come on, Upsy. Let’s go out an’ do a 
cake walk ’roun der block. [ Comic walk with Upson 
and exit d. f.] 

Mil. [Taking letter from envelope.\ I don’t under¬ 
stand this letter. [Reads. ] “Miss Lee: Your letter 
instructing us to sell certain of your mining stock was 
duly received. As the mines in question are very val¬ 
uable, and are certain to increase in value, we took the 
liberty of advancing you the required amount. We 
trust it was satisfactory, and should you desire a fur¬ 
ther remittance, please advise. The property has more 
than quadrupled in value during the past year, and we 
assure you that it would be very unw.ise to sell at pres¬ 
ent.’’ This is very strange. I wrote no such letter 
and have received no money. 

[Enter Mark, d. f.] 

Mark. Good morning, Miss Lee. 

Mil. [Coolly.] Good morning, sir. 

Mark. “Sir?” Why do you treat me so icily? Have 
I forfeited your regard? 

Mil. I am not aware that I had any regard, as you 
term it, for you to forfeit. 

Mark. You admitted that you did not dislike me. 

Mil. So I did.. 

Mark. Then if you do not dislike me- 

Mil. Please pardon me, Mr. Smailey, but really 
there is no occasion for personalities. We are merely 
acquaintances. Let it end at that. 

Mark. Do you blame me for what my father is 
doing? 

Mil. Certainly not—unless you are a party to it. 

Mark. I don’t understand. 

Mil. Very well. 

Mark. Do you think that my father- [Pauses.'] 

Mil. [Looks at him.] Well? 

Mark. Is playing an underhand game? 

Mil. I do not believe that Uncle Rube had that 
money. 




UNCLE RUBE. 


5i 


Mark. Then who did? He put it in the envelope 
and sealed it himself. The seal had not been tampered 
with, and yet the money was missing. 

Mil. I think that that can be explained. 

Mark. Indeed! In what way? 

Mil. That is to be ascertained. 

Mark. {Sneer ingly. ] Perhaps Mr. Gordon Gray can 
do that. 

Mil. Perhaps he can. 

Mark. If that beggar dares insinuate- 

Mil. {Rising. ] Mr. Gray is not a beggar. He is a 
gentleman who earns an honest living'—an example 
which some other—persons—would do well to follow. 
{Bows and turns up stage.\ 

Mark. Excuse me—just a word. 

Mil. {Facing him .] Excuse me —but I have no de¬ 
sire to converse with you. 

Mark. No? I suppose you prefer a fellow like this 
Mr. Gordon Gray. {Turns away. ] 

Mil. {Comes dozen.] And supposing I do—what then? 

Mark. {Shrugs shoulders. ] Oh, nothing. 

Mil. Does it concern you in any manner? 

Mark. Oh dear, no; only this Gordon Gray- 

Gor. {Entering d. f.] Well, what about him? 

Mark. So—playing the spy, were you? 

Gor. {Conducts Milicent r.] I want a few words in 
private with this person. [Mark is l.] 

Mil {Half amused. ] Don’t let him hurt you, Gor¬ 

don. 

Gor. Never fear. {She exits r. u. e.] Now, sir: 
[c.] In military life we respect a spy, for he risks his 
life in serving his country; but in civil life a spy is a 
most contemptible sneak. Now do you call me a spy? 

Mark. And what if I do? 

Gor. {Steps up to him , speaks slowly. ] Do you call 
me a spy? 

Mark. Yes, blast you: [Gordon knocks him dozen. 
Pie springs to his feet and rushes at Gordon, who knocks 
him dozen again .] 



5 2 


UNCLE RUBE. 


[Enter Ike, quickly ,. l.] 

Ike. Hurrah, hurrah, liur—[ Tumbles over Mark.] 
rah! Say, [Rises. ] what’s th’ row? TMilicent enters 
r. , comes doivn r.] 

Gor. We had a little one. 

Ike. I want t’ know! An’ y’ knocked him sen¬ 
sible, eh? Git up, now. [Mark rises, goes up l.] Th’ 
Justice said ther’ wasn’t no case agin Rube, so it’s dis¬ 
missed. 

Gor. Good! [Milicent claps her hands. Lively 
music. ] 

[Enter Mrs. Bunn and Tappam l. She crosses to Milly 

and kisses her. Rube enters l., Taggs and Upson 

D. F.] 

Gor. Three cheers for Uncle Rube. [All but Mark 
cheer, Rube meanwhile shaking hands all around.'] 


[Enter Deacon l.] 

Rube. Much obleeged ever’body. 

Tap. I’m glad it didn’t amount t’ anythin’. 

Dea. It didn’t, eh? Well, where’s that ten thousand 
dollars gone to? That’s what I want t’ know. 

Rube, [c.] Yes, Deacon Smailey, [ Very distinctly.] 
an’ that’s jes’ what we’re goin’ t’ find out. [ The others 
applaud.] 

Dea. Well, find out. Meanwhile I’ll hunt up an¬ 
other Justice. 

Rube. Meanwhile you’ll stay right here. 

Dea. What do you mean? 

Rube. I mean thet I’m a-holdin’ court right here 
myself. [Others applaud, crying ‘‘ Good! ’’ etc. ] 

Dea. Well, hold yer old court. It don’t interest me. 

Rube. Can’t spare y’ jes’ yet—so set down. 

Taggs. [Loudly.] Ain’t ye glad yer come? [Dea¬ 
con sits l. front. Rube brings stand to c. and sits 
behind it, facing audience. Others sit r. and l.] 


UNCLE RUBE. 


53 


Rube. This here court ’ll come t’ order. Taggs, 
keep yer feet still ’n’ stop chawin’ gum. 

Taggs. Can’t do both ter onct, Uncle Rube. 

Rube. You must. \Writes on slips of paper. ] 

Taggs. Oh, say, Uncle Rube- 

Rube. Stop Uncle Reubin’ me. You’re in court now 
—I’m “your Honor,’’ ’n’ I won’t be joshed. [Writes.] 

Up. Yas—you mustn’t josh now, Taggs. 

Tap. Silence in th’ court’ 

Rube. [Hands slips to Tappam. ] Give this t’ Mark 
*n’ th’ other t’ th’ deacon. [Tappam does so.] Deacon, 
you ’n’ Mark air summoned es witnesses. 

Dea. Witnesses fer what? 

Rube, Fer an examination I’m goin’ t’ hold. 

Mark. [Comes down.] An examination? 

Rube. Yes, sir. 

Mark. On what? 

Rube. On some durn crooked work. 

Mark. I don’t know anything about your crooked 
work. 

Rube. P’raps not; but I want t’ know suthin’ about 
some other people’s. 

Mark. I shan’t testify. 

Rube. I—guess—you—will. Set down till you’re 
wanted. Now, then, Deacon, step up here ’n’ kiss th’ 
book. 

Dea. I refuse to answer. 

Rube. Y’ do, hey? Then I’ll send y’ t’ jail fer con¬ 
tempt o’ court ’n’ keep y’ there till y’ do answer. 

Taggs. Hooray! An’ der band played Annie 
Laurie! 

Rube. Taggs, ef you interrupt this here court 
agin, this here court ’ll play tag with you, ’n’ you’ll 
be “it.’’ 

Up. Now will you be good? 

Rube. Well, Deacon, which is it? 

Dea. I ain’t afraid. [ Comes to table.] 

Rube. Raise yer right hand. Y’ swear t’ tell th’ 
truth, th’ whole truth ’n’ nuthin’ else but th’ truth? 


54 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Kiss th’ book. [He does so.] Gord, y’ write short¬ 
hand, I b’lieve. 

Gor. I do. 

Rube. Then, will y’ take down this testimony? 

Gor. With pleasure. [Sits at desk and writes .] 

Rube. Now, Deacon, was th’ ten thousand dollars 
y’ paid me yer own money? 

Dea. I don’t see- 

Rube. Answer my question. 

Dea. Well—yes. 

Rube. Where d’ you git it? 

Dea. I refuse t’ answer. 

Rube. D’ know’s I blame y’, Deacon. Arter I put 
th’ money in th’ envelope ’n’ sealed it up, did y’ tech 
it? 

Dea. Of course not. 

Rube. Swear t’ that? 

Dea. Certainly I do. 

Taggs. [Rises.] Say, Uncle Rube—y r er Honor- 

Rube. Set down, Taggs. [She sits. ] That’ll do fer 
th’ present. [Deacon returns to his seat.] Now, Mark, 
I want a leetle confabulation with you. Raise your 
right hand. [Rapidly.] Y’-swear-t’-tell-th’-truth-th’ 
whole - truth - ’n’ - nuthin’ - else - but - th’ - truth - kiss- 
th’- book. [He does so.] Y’ said last night thet I 
wouldn’t be so flip when I found out erbout tli’ ten 
thousand dollars. What d’ you mean by that air 
speech? 

Mark. Why—I—I told you then that the week 

was up. 

Rube. Y’ knew nuthin’ else, eh? 

Mark. No, I didn’t. 

Rube. All right. That’s all. [Mark joins Dea¬ 
con.] Now, Taggs, I’ll just ask- 

Taggs. [Jumps up, raises both hands, speaks rapidly.] 
I’ll tell der whole troot an’ nuthin’ else s’welp me, 
John Rogers! [Runs to table and kisses book.] 

Rube. Ef you’re runnin’ th’ court, Taggs, I’ll 
absquatulate. 





L. of 


UNCLE RUBE. 


55 


Taggs. I only wanted ter swear what I seen dat old 
trolley do. 

Rube. Go ahead then. 

Taggs. A week ago yous an’ dat old sag wop was 
here. Yous went to der desk ter git yer glims- 

Rube. Git what? 

Taggs. Yer glims—yer gogs—glasses. 

Rube. Y’ mean my specs—wall, go on. 

Taggs. Soon’s yer back was turned dat old ice cart 
swipes a big envelope as lays on der table, an’ trims 
down a diff, wot yous picked up. 

Rube Pocketed th’ envelope, hey, ’n’ put down a 
different one? 

Taggs Dat’s der size of it. 

Dea [Rising.] That’s a lie! 

Taggs. Wot? [Runs to Deacon, grabs him by coat 
collar, pushes him back into chair, and shakes him vio¬ 
lently while speaking. ] Yous puts a lie on me? Eh? 
Eh? Eh? Eh? [Mark grabs her arm. Rube runs dozvn 
and flings Mark aside, picks Taggs up, carries her across 
stage, and places her in chair.'] 

Rube. Now, y’ little wild cat, set still. [ Turns 
away. ] 

Taggs. Call me a liar, will he? [Makes another dash 
at Deacon, but Rube turns just in time to catch her in his 
arms. Puts her back into chair.] 

Rube. Ef you git up again, I v ll tie y’ down. 

Mark. [To Deacon ] We better get out. [They 
start. ] 

Rube [Stopping them ] Don’t be oneasy, Deacon. 
I’ve got a few remarks t’ make. Deacon, when I buy 
a boss of a rascal, I examine that hoss mighty keerful. 
Now, a week ago, when I sealed up that air envelope 
I made a smudge cn it; but th’ one I picked up didn’t 
hev no smudge. So, thinks I, guess I’ll see ’bout 
this, ’n’ Bill ’n’ me onsealed it ’n’ found nuthin’ but 
blank paper. We said nuthin’, but we sawed wood. 
We went t’ th’ bank, told th’ cashier, ’n' then let 
tilings run their course. Now, how d’ y’ feel? 



5 6 


UNCLE RUBE. 


Taggs. He feels rocky! 

Dea. Well, Reuben, I—I—I’ll give ye the ten thou¬ 
sand dollars if ye’ll say no more about it. 

Rube. Give it t’ me? Why, y’ mean, pizen dog! 
Give it t’ th’ gal y’ stole it from, ’long with th’ rest of 
her property. 

Mil. Why, Uncle Rube- 

Rube. It’s a fact, Milly. He forged yer name ’n’ 
raised th’ money on yer minin’ stock. Bill, take this 
rattlesnake ’n’ lock him up till we see what th’ Gran’ 
Jury ’ll hev t’ say. As fer you, [To Mark.] you’ve 
been walkin’ on thin ice ’n’ I advise y’t’ keep on shore 
arter this. 

Mil. Uncle Rube—I don’t want the man locked up. 

Rube. But he wanted t’ lock me up—dum him! 

Mil. I know, but as a favor to me, please let him 
go. 

Rube. Wall, when a gal wuth a million dollars er 
more asks a favor, I s’pose that settles it. Bill, you’n 
Ike go hum with th’ deacon ’n’ git ther money ’n’ 
whatever else he hes b’longin’ t’ Milly. [Bill, Ike, 
Deacon and Mark exit d. f. ] Good, shake. [They 
shake hands .] You’re mos’ es sweet a gal ’s ever 
drapped into old Varmount, ’n’ a millionairess t’ boot. 
An say, [To audience .] ther’s goin’t’ be a double wed- 
din’ over t’ my house pritty dum soon quick. You ’n’ 
all th’ folks air invited t’ come ’n’ put in a pleasant 
evenin’ with Uncle Rube. 


CURTAIN. 


[Music: “ Yankee Doodlequick time.'] 



2 


THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 




The American Amateur Drama. 


A collection of new copyrighted plays, suitable'for amateur and professional 
performances. The acting is not especially difficult, and the scenery can be 
easily managed. While full of action, these plays are not boisterous, but are 
refined and elevated in tone. They are bright, interesting and contain not a dull 
line. Before deciding on a drama for amateur performance, read these plays. 

Aroused at Last. Comedy in one act, by Mary Kyle 
Dallas. Four male, four female characters. Plays about forty 
minutes. One interior parlor scene. Costumes of to-day; 
scene, New York City. A play full of brisk but refined action, 
lively dialogue, and the comedy possibilities are unlimited. Mr. 
and Mrs. Pondicherry are a successful business man and his 
fond wife. Mr. and Mrs. Vandernoodle, a young old Knicker¬ 
bocker and his bride. Miss and Mr. Wiggins, a spinster from 
Toadfish Point and her brother, Celeste, a breezy French 
maid and a young man waiter complete a fine cast of characters. 
Price, 15 oents. 

Bloomer Girls, or, Courtship in the Twentieth 

Century. Satirical comedy in one act, by John A. Fraser, Jr., 
author “Noble Outcast,” “Modern Ananias,” “A Cheerful 
Liar,” etc. One male, three female characters. One garden 
scene, which may be changed to an interior if desired. Plays 
two hours. Two young women in handsome bloomer costumes, 
one elderly lady in dark dress and a very effiminately attired 
young man compose the cast of characters. The dialogue is 
written in Mr. Fraser’s best style—bright and refined, while 
at the same time it hits the fad hard. Price, 15 cents. 

Bold Stratagem. Comedy in three acts, by Marsden 
Brown. Four male, three female characters; costumes mod¬ 
ern; one exterior, two interior scenes. Plays forty-five min¬ 
utes. This sparkling comedy is bright and witty, yet pure in 
tone, having no elaborate costumes or difficult scenery. Ama¬ 
teurs will find it just what they want. Every character good. 
Every situation telling. Price, 15 cents. 

Burglars. Comedy in one act, by Robert Julian, author 
of “Will You Marry Me?” Two male, two female characters. 
A parlor scene. Plays fifteen minutes. Costumes are suitable 
for one lady and one gentleman in the fashion of to-day, for a 
housemaid’s pretty dress and a young dandy darkey. The 
cast includes Mrs. Greene, afraid of burglars; her husband, 
brave when there is no danger; Kitty, afraid of no one, and 
Toby, a darkey, who is hired to catch burglars. The situations 
are new, and will keep the audience roaring from the entrance 
of Toby to the end. Price, 15 cents. 





THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 


3 


Cheerful Liar. Farcical comedy in three acts, by John 
A. Fraser, Jr., author of “Modern Ananias,” “Noble Outcast,” 
“Merry Cobbler,” etc. Five male, three female characters. 
Plays three hours. Three interior scenes, all easily arranged. 
Costumes of the day. A shrieking- farcical comedy, full of “go” 
and new situations. Unlike most lig-ht pieces, this one has a 
most capital plot, full of entanglements. It is a comedy in 
which any number of specialties may be introduced, althoug-h 
it was played on the professional stag-e a long - season without 
any. Flora, Randolph, Guy, Hussel and Mrs. Sweetlove may 
all sing- and dance with advantag-e. Judge Hussel is a great 
character part. The audacity as well as cheerfulness with 
which he prevaricates invariably “brings down the house.” In 
the last act where Flora dons a boy’s costume and the Judge 
is dressed to captivate, the stage presents one of the strongest 
comedy scenes that has ever been suggested. The book of 
the play gives the very full stage directions for crosses, en¬ 
trances, exits, etc., for which Mr. Fraser’s plays are noted. 
While prepared for amateurs in details, professional com¬ 
panies find this play a good one for the box office as well as 
an artistic favorite. Price, 25 cents. 

Delicate Question. Comedy drama in four acts, by 
John A. Fraser, Jr., author of “Modern Ananias,” “Noble 
Outcast,” etc. Nine male, three female characters. One exte¬ 
rior, two interior scenes. Modern costumes. Plays two hours. 
If a play presenting an accurate picture of life in the rura. 
districts is required, in which every character has been faith¬ 
fully studied from life, nothing better for the use of amateurs 
than “A Delicate Question” can be recommended. The story 
is utterly unlike that of any other play, and deals with the 
saloon, which it handles without gloves and at the same time 
without a single line of sermonizing. What “Ten Nights in a 
Barroom” was to the public of a past generation, “A Delicate 
Question” is destined to be to the present, although it is far 
from being exactly what is known as a “temperance play.” 
The plot is intensely interesting, the pathetic scenes full of 
beauty, because they are mental photographs from nature, and 
the comedy is simply uproariously funny. The parts, very 
equally balanced. The scenic effects are quite simple, and by 
a little ingenuity the entire piece may be played in a kitchen 
scene. The climaxes are all as novel as they are effective and 
the dialogue is as natural as if the characters were all real 
people. Price, 25 cents. 

Food for Powder. Vaudeville in two acts, by R. Andre, 
author of “A Handsome Cap,” “Minette’s Birthday,” etc. 
Three male, two female characters. One interior scene. Plays 
forty minutes. Costumes, French, of the time of Napoleon I. 
This dainty and refined play is full of pretty songs set to famil¬ 
iar airs, and specialty dances may be introduced. For profes¬ 
sional or amateur vaudeville evenings, this will be found just 
the thing for the short drama which should always form one 
»f the features. Price, 15 cento* 





4 


THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHIhu COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 


Handsome Cap, Comic operetta in one act, by R. An 
dre, author of “Food for Powder,” “Minette’s Birthday,” etc. 
Three male, two female characters. One cottage interior scene. 
Costumes, of time of George II.. Plays forty minutes. The 
song-s are all written to be sung- to popular and well-known 
airs; dances may be introduced without limit, althoug-h there 
is a real plot and story carried to a happy termination. Bike 
other plays by this writer, “A Handsome Cap” is peculiarly 
suited to amateur and professional vaudeville evenings. 
Price, 15 cents. 

Maud Muller. Operetta in three acts, by Fffle W. Merri- 
man, author “Socials,” “Pair of Artists,” etc. Three male, 
two 'female characters Fudicrous costumes and some proper¬ 
ty effects which may be easily arranged but are very amus¬ 
ing-. One interior, one exterior scene. Plays two hours. The 
piece is arrang-ed for a chorus to do a g-ood deal of work, but 
a distinct reader will be found effective. The book of the 
play gives the most minute directions for its production as to 
action and properties. The horse upon which the judge rides 
in the hay-field scene is represented by two men covered by a 
fur robe. The antics of this horse may be made as funny as 
the imagination of the director may suggest. The judge 
should be a spare man made up to look pompous. Church so¬ 
cieties, as well as amateur clubs, will find this a money-mak¬ 
ing entertainment. Price, 25 cents. 

Merry Cobbler. Comedy drama in four acts, by John A. 
Fraser, Jr., author “Bloomer Girls,” “Showman’s Ward.” 
“Modern Ananias,” etc. Six male, five female characters. Two 
interior, two exterior scenes. Modern costumes. Plays two 
hours. This romantic story of a German emigrant boy who 
falls in love with, and finally marries, a dashing Southern 
belle, is one of the cleanest and daintiest in the whole reper¬ 
toire of the minor stage. The Merry Cobbler is one of the 
type the late J. K Emmet so loved to portray. Had the piece 
been originally written for the use of amateurs it could not 
have been happier in its results, its natural and mirth-provok¬ 
ing comedy combined wiih a strong undercurrent of heart in¬ 
terest, rendering it a vehicle with which even inexperienced 
actors are sure to be seen at their best The scenic effects are 
of the simplest description and the climaxes, while possessing 
the requisite amount of “thrill” are very easy to handle. 
The author has prepared elaborate instructions for its produc¬ 
tion by amateur players. Price, 25 cents. 

Minette’s Birthday. Vaudeville in one act, by R. An¬ 
dre, author of “A Handsome Cap,” “Food for Powder,” etc. 
Two male, three female characters. Plays forty-five minutes. 
One interior cottage scene. Costumes, in fancy French peasant 
fashion. This is another one of this author’s plays arranged 
for the popular amateur and professional vaudeville evenings. 
It is full of merry songs and dances, refined, spirited and very 
amusing always. Price, 15 cents. 






THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 


5 


Modern Ananias. Comedy in three acts, by John A. 
Fraser, Jr., author “Noble Outcast,” “Showman’s Ward,” etc. 
Four male, four female characters. Two interior, one exterior 
scenes. Modern society costumes. Plays three hours. This is 
a screaming - farcical comedy, which depends upon the wit and 
humor of its lines no less than upon the drollery and absurdity 
of its situations for the shrieks of laughter it invariably pro¬ 
vokes. Unlike most farcical comedies. “A Modern Ananias” 
has an ingeniously complicated plot, which maintains a keen 
dramatic interest until the fall of the last curtain. The scen¬ 
ery, if necessary, may be reduced to a garden scene and an in¬ 
terior. The climaxes are all hilariously funny, and each of 
the three acts is punctured with laughs from beginning' to 
end. Amateurs will find nothing more satisfactory in the 
whole range of the comic drama than this up-to-date comedy- 
farce. The fullest stage directions accompany the book, in¬ 
cluding all the “crosses” and positions, pictures, etc. Price, 
25 cents. 

Noble Outcast. Drama in four acts, by John A. Fraser, 
Jr., author “Modern Ananias,” “Merry Cobbler,” “Cheerful 
Lfiar,” etc. Four male, three female characters. Plays three 
hours. Costumes, modern, except Jerry’s, when he appears as 
a tramp and again as an exagerated “swell.” This play has 
proven one of the most popular ever produced on the profes¬ 
sional stage, but the author for the first time now allows it to 
be printed from the original manuscript. All the entrances, 
exits and positions will be found in the book of the play. It is 
safe to say that in the whole range of the drama there is no 
character to be found with such power to compel alternate 
laughter and tears as is shown by “Jerry, the tramp.” The 
dramatic interest is always intense. Price, 25 cents. 

Pair of Artists. Comedy in three acts, by Fffie W. Merri- 
man, author of “Maud Muller,” “Socials,” etc. Four male, 
three female characters. Plays one and three-quarters hours. 
Three interior scenes, all easily arranged. Mrs. Scott wears 
bloomers and a man’s hat; Mr. Scott, blue overalls and a 
checked gingham apron; Gertie, a long-sleeved apron and hair 
braided down her back; the others, conventional dress of to¬ 
day. Fach character has a prominent part. There is no vil¬ 
lain or heavy people; all goes with a vim, and has been pre¬ 
sented to the most critical audiences with entire success. 
Price, 15 cents. 

Purse, The. Comedy in two acts; dramatized by Theo¬ 
dore Harris, from Balzac’s “Fa Bourse.” Seven male, two 
female characters. Plays one hour and fifty minutes. Interior 
scenes. Costumes of the time of Napoleon I. The exquisite 
language and sentiment of this noted French writer has been 
admirably translated by Mr. Harris. For a student of dra¬ 
matic literature, this play is recommended. The dialogue is 
as dainty and charming as a piece of French porcelain. 
Price, 15 cents 





6 


THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 


Showman’s Ward. Comedy in three acts, by John A. 
Fraser, Jr., author of “Noble Outcast,” “Delicate Question,” 
“Merry Cobbler,” etc. Fight male, five female characters. 
Three doubles may be made. Costumes of to-day. Plays two 
and one-half hours, This comedy has been very successfully 
performed under another title on the professional stage. It 
is, however, well adapted for the use of amateurs on account 
of the absence of scenic effects, the play being capable of per¬ 
formance in a parlor with different furniture for each act. 
The more singing and dancing introduced, the better for the 
performance. There is a dress rehearsal scene and a girls' 
school scene, which are always uproariously funny. The 
number of girls taking part in the school scene may be unlim¬ 
ited, thus making the play an admirable one for a club or 
society. The role of the showman’s ward is a soubrette one, 
and it can easily be made a star part by a clever young wo¬ 
man if this is desired. Still, all the characters are so distinct¬ 
ly drawn that each is important and leading. Mf. Fraser has, 
as usual, given full directions for the stage production of this 
comedy in the book of the play. Price, 25 cents. 

Twixt Love and Money. Comedy drama in four acts, 
by John A. Fraser, Jr., author “Modern Ananias,” “Merry 
Cobbler,” “Noble Outcast,” etc. Fight male, three female 
characters. Plays two and one-half hours. Three interior 
scenes. Costumes of the day. This charming domestic com¬ 
edy drama of the present day bids fair to rival, both with pro¬ 
fessionals and amateurs, the success of “Hazel Kirke.” The 
scene is laid in a little village on the coast of Maine, and the 
action is replete with dramatic situations which “play them¬ 
selves.” The story is intensely interesting and, in these days 
of Frenchy adaptations and “problem” plays, delightfully 
pure; while the moral—that love brings more happiness than 
does money—is plainly pointed without a single line of preach¬ 
ing. No such romantic interest has been built up around a 
simple, country heroine since the production of “Hazel Kirke” 
and “May Blossom” years ago. The play is in four acts, and 
as the scenery is easy to manage it is particularly well adapted 
for the use of amateurs. This play was originally written for 
professionals, but has been carefully revised for amateurs by 
Mr. Fraser, and the book contains full directions for all stage 
business. The dramatic interest is intense, each act being 
given a strong climax in situation and dialogue. Price, 25 cents. 

Will You Marry Me? Farce in one act, by Robert 
Julian, author of “Burglars.” Two male, two female charac¬ 
ters. Plays twenty minutes. Costumes of to-day for eccen¬ 
tric old gentleman, one maiden elderly lady, one young man 
and one young woman. One interidr parlor scene. The plot 
is full of intensely amusing matrimonial complications, with 
a happy ending. The fun is about evenly divided among the 
four strong parts. Some clever acting is desired where the 
dialogue is repeated under contrasting circumstances, by dif¬ 
ferent persona. Price, 




THfc DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 


«< 


The Midway 

Burlesque ehtertainment, based on the famous Midway 
Piaisance of the World’s Columbian Exposition. Full direc¬ 
tions for producing and conducting it upon the most ex¬ 
tensive plan or on a limited scale. Following are some 
of the main features: Beauty Show, Streets of Cairo, Hagen* 
beck’s Trained Animals, Javanese Village, Old Vienna, 
Casino, Japanese Bazar, Ferris Wheel, Samoan Village, Blar 
ney Castle, Art Gallery, Turkish Theatre, Esquimaux Village, 
etc Q This entertainment is new, good and unique. Nothing 
like it has ever been presented which can make more money 
for the work. Price, 50 cents. 

Socials 

By Eefie W. Merriman. 

There has long been a demand from societies, clubs, 
benevolent associations and other organizations desiring 
to raise money, for novelties in entertainments. This book 
supplies this want. More than a score of amusing socials 
and other entertainments are described, and every society 
and club will find some suited to its purposes. Every family 
should have one. With this book as a guide, it would be 
possible to have a different entertainment every week dur¬ 
ing the winter. Among the entertainments described are 
the following: C Social, A Crazy Social, The Holidays, 
The Week, Pink Tea, Brown Tea, etc., Phantom Social, Moth¬ 
er Goose Social, Old Grimes’ Plaster O’Paris Figures, The 
Authors’ Social, Quaker Social, Toyland Social, A Dickens’ 
Social, Mum Social, Law Social, Fashion Social, Conundrum 
Social, Popcorn Social, Eeaf Social, Pallette Social, Puzzle 
Social, Maud Muller Burlesque, etc. Price, in limp cloth cov¬ 
ers, 50 cents. 

The Art of Acting 

By Sir Henry Irving. 

This well-known address to the students of Harvard Univer 
sity, now reprinted with the express permission of Sir Henry, 
called forth extended comment and universal approbation. It 
is believed to be the best brief exposition of the actor’s art— the 
art of which Sir Henry is the most eminent representative in 
the world. Every person interested in the stage should read 
this little book. To the actor and amateur it is indispensable. 
Price, 25 cents. 



THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 


15 


Curtain Lifted 

Or, The Order of the Sons of Mars. 

Burlesque initiation ceremony, by Frank F. Hiland. For 
gentlemen. Ten speaking- characters and from ten to fifty 
members of the lodge. Scene, a lodge room. Costumes, gro¬ 
tesque. Requires an entire evening. The book gives full de¬ 
tails for costumes and production. The latter is elaborate in 
salutes and other formalities. Grand Hinkajink has the most 
prominent part, but Inkslinger, Boodleholder, Royal Butcher, 
Worthy Slush and William Green are important. This is the 
best imtiation of Masonic, Odd Fellows and other secret so¬ 
cieties’ initiations. Price, 25 cents. 


Parson Poor’s Donation Party 

Burlesque entertainment in two scenes, by M. H. Jaquith, 
author of “Deestrick Skule,” etc. Three male, eight female 
characters. Two simple interior scenes. Plays one hour. 
Very easy to get up, costumes being as old-fashioned as possi¬ 
ble, but need not be consistent. Very funny and perfectly in¬ 
offensive for church performance. May be played by young 
people, but with even greater comic effect by grown ladies and 
gentlemen. Price, 25 cents. 


Ma Dusenberry and Her Gearls 

Humorous entertainment, arranged by M. H. Jaquith, authoi 
of “Deestrict Skule,” etc. First and second singing “towers” 
in the latter, father goes along. Any number of young ladies 
may take part, but seven are necessary. Costumes are made 
as old-fashioned and amusing as possible, and while good 
voices are not necessary, ability to carry a tune is demanded. 
Recitations, songs and even character dances may be intro¬ 
duced without limit. Focal talent of all kinds can thus all be 
utilized. No scenery except a stage is required, and the 
“gearls” furnish the orchestra. Societies and clubs of ladies 
cannot find a better mQney-maker. Price, 25 cents. 






THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY’S CATALOGUE 


t6 


■ The “Deestrick Skule” of Fifty 

Years Ago 

By Mr. M. H. Jaquith. 

Fifteen to fifty people are required to give this entertain^ 
ment. Old-fashioned costumes of fifty years ago are worn, 
grown men and women dressing as the boys and girls of that 
time in America. The book gives full suggestions for the 
costumes. It contains questions and answers for the classes, 
“compositions” and “pieces” for the entertainment and a 
parting poetical “trib-ute” from the “ma” of two pairs of 
twins. This is the strongest burlesque entertainment in use 
for societies and clubs, and is always successful when given. 
The most popular entertainment ever published. Price, 50 cents. 


“Exerbition” of the Deestrick Skule 
of Fifty Years Ago 

By Mrs. M. H. JaquiTh. 

The “Deestrick Skule” has given the public the purest fun 
and made the most money for charity of any known entertain¬ 
ment. The “Exerbition,” which we this season published for 
the first time, is just as amusing. The “las’ day” of every 
well-conducted “skule” was always given to the “Exerbition,” 
and in it the same scholars are brought in again who were so 
well-known in the “Deestrick Skule.” The day is divided into 
the forenoon session, the noon hour and the afternoon speakin’, 
with the visit of the “Skule Committee.” Price, 50 cents. 


Barberine and Other Comedies 

By Alfred de Musset. 

“The grace and delicacy of his remarkable dramas, the in¬ 
tensity with which the story is adapted to the moral, the abund¬ 
ant w r it which illustrates and pervades them, makes them 
unique in literature .”—George Saintsbury. 

"Strange, fastastic, exquisite little comedies ."-Henry James 

16 mo., cloth, gilt top, $1.25. 






DIAMONDS AND HEARTS 

A Comedy Drama in Three Acts. 

By EFF1E W. MERRIMAN. 


Price, 25 Cents. 


This new play has bounded at once into a wide popularity. 
ie good plot, the strong “heart” interest, and the abundant 
jmedy all combine to mike a most excellent drama. “Bub” 
Barnes is a fine character of the Josh Whitcomb type, and his 
sister is a worthy companion “bit.” Sammy is an excruciatingly 
funny little darky. The other characters are good. Fine oppor¬ 
tunity for introducing specialties. The play has so many good 
points that it never fails to be a success. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Bernice Halstead, a young lady of eighteen,with an affection of 

the heart, a love for fun and hatred of arithmetic. 

Amy Halstead, her sister, two years younger, fond of frolic.... 
Inez Gray, a young lady visitor willing to share in the fun.... 
Mrs. Halstead, a widow, and stepmother to the Halstead girls. 
Hannah Mary Barnes, or “Sis,”a maiden lady who keeps house 

for her brother.. 

Dwight Bradley, a fortune hunter and Mrs. Halstead’s son by 

a former marriage. 

Dr. Burton, a young physician. 

Sammy, the darky bell-boy in the Halstead house. 

Abraham Barnes, or “Bub,” a yankee farmer still unmarried at 

forty—a diamond in the rough.. 

Attorney; Sheriff. 

Time of playing, two hours. 

Two interior scenes. Modern costumes. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS: 

ACT I. Parlor of the Halstead home. The young doctor. The three girls 
plot to make his acquaintance. An affection of the heart. “Easy to fool a 
young doctor,” but not so easy after all. The stepmother and her son. The 
stolen diamonds. The missing will Plot to win Bernice. “I would not marry 
Dwight Bradley for all the wealth the world contains.” Driven from home. 

ACT. II. Kitchen of the Barnes’ farm house, Bub takes off his boots. 
The new school ma’am. “Supoer’s ready.” “This is our nephey and he’s a 
doctor.” Recognition. A difficult problem in arithmetic. The doctor to the 
rescue. “I’m just the happiest girl in the world.” “I’ve come to pop the 
question, an’ why don’t I do it?” Brother and sister. “If it’s a heifer, it’s teh 
bemin9.” The sheriff. Arrested for stealing the diamonds. “Let me knock 
yor durned head off.” The jewels found in Bernice’s trunk. 

ACT. III. Parlor of the Halsted home. “That was a lucky stroke—hiding 
those diamonds in her trunk.” The schemer’s plot miscarries. Abe and 
Sammy join hands. The lawyer. “Bully for her.” Bradley tries to escape 
“No, yeh don’t!” Arrested. “It means, dear, that you are to be persecuted no 
more.” Wedding presents, and a w t dance around them. "It is no trick at 
all to fool a young doctor.” 











PLAYS. 

B EING the largest theatrical booksellers in 
the United States, we keep in stock the most 
complete and best assorted lines of plays and 
entertainment books to be found in this country. 

We can supply any play or book pub¬ 
lished. We have issued a 120-page catalogue 
of the best 1500 plays and entertainment books 
published in the U. S. and England. It con¬ 
tains a full description of each play, giving 
number of characters, time of playing, scenery, 
costumes, etc. This catalogue will be sent free 
on application. 

The plays described are suitable for am¬ 
ateurs and professionals, and nearly all of them 
may be performed free of royalty. Persons in¬ 
terested in dramatic books should examine our 
catalogue before ordering elsewhere. 

The Dramatic Publishing Company, 

CHICAGO. 



